The Hunting Of Men
by Absolute Elsewhere
Summary: After months overseas, Mike Weston thinks he's finally got Mark Gray cornered. Mark Gray thinks he's finally got a way to kill Mike Weston. But nothing is what it seems. There are more than two players in this game, including a female CIA agent assigned to work with Mike, and a deadly, unexpected threat that lurks in the shadows.
1. Everything Has More Than One Name

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Hi gang. I don't know if The Following even has a fandom anymore, since it's been off the air for a while, but on the off chance it does, I decided to boldly go where no Following fanfic has gone before - straight into Mike's year overseas and Mark Gray's time on the run. But of course it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

So the question is, if this is supposed to be about Mike's year overseas, why isn't Mike in this chapter? And the answer is that he'll be in the next one, and so will Ryan and Max. But the setup takes some doing, as you'll see, so Chapter One, somewhat to my surprise, ended up being BGO. (Bad Guys Only)

" _There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter." -_ Ernest Hemingway

Chapter 1 - Everything Has More Than One Name

 _MacLean, Virginia_ _Four Weeks Ago_

The party had been underway since eight o'clock, but the killing wouldn't begin for another hour. The victims were still being kept in the holding cells downstairs, and most of the guests hadn't even set eyes on their kills yet. A few had, of course. Those who had a V in their membership number were allowed to pick through the available choices ahead of time, as were members of the Committee who actually ran the Organization. They got first pick, with the Chairman getting to choose first.

For now, people were lounging about in the gallery in the center of the mansion, enjoying drinks and hors d'oeuvres served by attractive young people in fetish wear. Some of these were hors d'oeuvres as well, of a different sort. A few of the guests were masked. These were people who needed to preserve their anonymity, even from the other guests, either because of who they were, or what they were about to do.

One of the corridors leading away from the gallery was marked off by velvet rope dividers and guarded by two security men whose job it was to see that only authorized guests could pass. Guests and staff all wore plastic bracelets with a bar code. Anyone seeking to cross the red rope divider into the corridor beyond would have the plastic bracelet they wore scanned by a guard. Anyone without the correct bar code would be politely, but firmly turned away.

The bedrooms beyond were used for killing, except for one. A large bedroom with an adjoining sitting room was set aside for one very special member. The sitting room had been converted into an office. The dark paneled office and its adjoining bedroom and bath belonged to the striking, dark haired young woman who sat behind the desk studying some papers. When she attended a party she stayed there overnight. The office was used for work, and sometimes for receiving important guests. The bedroom was for sleeping. She never killed there. There was a surgical room in the basement, and when she carried out a vivisection, she reserved it for her use.

She sat at her desk, reading over a file on a prospective member, a flamboyant real estate magnate who was prominent in the casino business. He was certainly rich enough, and bent enough, to qualify for membership in the Organization. But reading over the report, she decided that he was some combination of high profile and reckless. The Organization demanded that its members be discreet, and while those who weren't could always be dealt with, doing so was both bothersome and expensive. The Chairman wanted her opinion before inviting this man to join. She decided to advise against it. This particular candidate had a mouth control problem , and admitting him would likely be making a disposal job for herself down the road.

Her phone, which was sitting on her desk, buzzed for her attention. She glanced at it, and saw that the call was from Kaminsky, one of her two regular bodyguards. He and her other bodyguard Stinnes often helped oversee security when she was at the House for an event. She picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Ma'am," Kaminsky said, "I'm sorry to disturb you. We have a woman at the gate. She hasn't got a bracelet, but she gave the guards a recognition code."

"What was the code?"

"She said that she was here with a delivery from Henry Medical Supply, and that someone needed to sign for it."

"How did she arrive?"

"She came in a car, alone. No sign that she's being followed."

"Park her car in the garage in case we have to get rid of it. Take her in through the delivery entrance. I want her searched.. If she's clean, bring her to my office. I want a mask on her, and a blindfold under the mask. I don't want her recognizing anyone, and I don't want her being recognized."

"Yes Ma'am."

She went into the bedroom got her shoulder holster with the Makarov in it from the closet shelf . and put it on. To conceal it she slipped a black bolero jacket over the sleeveless black sheath dress she wore. She kept a Glock 26 in her desk drawer, but felt like some extra insurance.

II

Stinnes and Kaminsky entered the office, each of them with a hand on the upper arm of a woman wearing dark straight leg pants, a white blouse, a dark suit jacket with tux lapels, and black flats with a strap around the ankle. Her face was covered by one of the translucent masks that were used by guests. Beneath it, a black leather blindfold was secured in back with a buckle. Kaminsky closed the office door, and looked questioningly at his boss. She nodded, and he removed the mask and blindfold. The woman, a slender brunette with her hair pinned up in a bun, blinked at the light, and looked around her, trying to orient herself to her surroundings.

"Sit down," the woman behind the desk ordered.

"They took my phone and purse," the new arrival protested. .

"You'll get them back if we let you leave. Sit down."

The nervous woman sat down in a leather upholstered accent chair in front of the desk. Kaminsky reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a manila envelope, and placed it on the desk. "She was carrying this, Ma'am," he said.

She picked up the envelope. The flap was already open. She removed the contents. A few sheets of lined paper, legal size, folded up, and a black Moleskine notebook with a soft cover.

"Are you Eliza?" the newcomer asked.

"Don't ask questions, answer them," the woman behind the desk replied. "I believe there's something you're supposed to tell me."

Her guest sat silent, looking flustered.

"I hope, for your sake, you remember what it is."

"I come from Hakim. Hakim sent me."

The woman behind the desk sat impassively for a moment, looking at the stranger as if measuring her for a coffin. "Thank you," she said to Kaminsky. "Wait outside."

The two bodyguards left. "So," the woman behind the desk said, " you come from Doctor Strauss."

"Yes. My name is Julianna Barnes. I'm a paralegal. I work for the firm that's handling his defense."

"And what's this?" the first woman asked, indicating the notebook and folded up paper.

"Doctor Strauss told me to give it to Eliza."

She picked up the notebook on her desk and flipped through it. The book was filled with page after page of handwritten numbers. Clearly a code of some sort. She put the book down, opened up the folded paper, and began to read.

There were three sheets of handwritten notes. Each sheet had a name at the top, along with a short biography. There were also dates when the people had studied with Strauss, along with their preferred methods of killing, and disposal of their victims. There were also lists of what weapons they were proficient with, and even notes on their psychological profiles. She looked at the names - Kyle and Daisy Locke, and Theo Noble.

"Doctor Strauss didn't write this," she said, putting the items back on her desk. "It's a woman's handwriting."

"It's mine," Julianna said.

"He dictated this?"

"No. He gave me two notebooks. Both were in code. The stuff on those three pages was from one of the books. It was much shorter. He gave me a key to the code. He told me to decode it, and take the decoded copy to Eliza. He said it would prove the other book was genuine. He said that

he would provide a key to the code in exchange for her help."

"So I decode the book, and what do I get? The answers on Jeopardy?"

"A list of all of his students. Are you Eliza?"

"Yes. I'm Eliza. Ms Barnes, this is all very beguiling, but Doctor Strauss is quite beyond my help. And that being the case, I don't see much reason to let you walk out of here alive."

"Doctor Strauss has a plan to compromise the Governments's case against him, but he needs your help to make it work. He said you had the resources to carry out his plan. He offers a deal. His life's work in exchange for your help in saving his life."

"And what's in it for you?"

"He said that after he walked out of court a free man, that we would be together."

Eliza flipped through the pages of the coded book, studying the lines of numbers carefully. At length, she put it down on the desk in front of her. "All right, Ms Barnes. Let's talk turkey."

III

 _Skopje, Macedonia Ten Days Ago_ *

The dance floor at Branko's was crowded with revelers who were some combination of happy, drunk, hopeful of the evening's prospects, or just high on the energy, the vibe, and the throbbing music. The place didn't have the garish colored lights common in American nightclubs, and the music, while loud, wasn't painful. The drinks were reasonably priced, and American dollars went far enough. At over fifty Denar to the dollar, Jerry Gilliam had managed to get himself seriously drunk every night this week without making a major dent in his bankroll. The male female ratio here was better than the average for most American nightclubs, and that was a plus as well.

The current song was ending just as he downed the last of his imported German beer. He'd been taking a break, nursing a Krombacher and a bit of anger at being rejected by a curvy brunette who had wandered off with a some guy wearing jeans and a black and white striped T shirt that looked like something a convict would wear in an old movie.

He saw a girl nearby with thick rimmed glasses and her dark hair in a braid. She was wearing a dark blouse, shorts, and ankle boots with high heels. Her ass was a little chunky, but overall...not bad. She was at the bar getting a drink. Something clear in a cocktail glass with a half slice of lemon floating in it. He was close enough to move in and approach, and the Krombacher had helped restore his self confidence. He began moving in her direction.

"Hi. Are you a good driver? Me and some friends are planning a bank robbery, and we need a getaway driver. We'll cut you in for three percent."

He had been hoping that she would try to negotiate for five percent, which the PUA** web site he had got the line from had said was likely. But she may not have spoken enough English, or maybe that particular opening didn't work as well here as he'd hoped, or maybe she hadn't understood him over the song that was starting up. Whatever the reason she retreated with a silly grin on her face and her drink in her hand, and was soon at a table with a guy with blond hair who wore similar looking glasses and had a stubbly beard. He was disappointed, but consoled himself with the thought that she'd had a fat ass anyway.

The new song was metal, but eminently danceable, and the lyrics were in English. He didn't recognize the band, but they were apparently British or American. He began scanning the crowd, looking for his next prospect.

"Hi, I'm Marta."

He turned to find himself facing a tall slender woman with high cheekbones and vaguely almond shaped brown eyes. She had long hair that fell loose over her shoulders. She was wearing a short black velvet dress with long sleeves. It hugged her curves, and they were, he decided, very nice curves.

He tried to think of an opening line, but before he could, she held out her hand and tilted her head towards the dance floor. He took her hand, and followed. She was athletic, graceful and something about her moves made him think she might have had some professional dance training. He felt clumsy next to her, but she seemed to be into it - and into him. Something about her made him think of a pole dancer he'd admired back home.

The song ended. "Are you American?" she asked.

"Yeah. My name is Jerry. You move like a professional dancer."

"Thank you. You move well yourself. I have another American friend. Come, I'll introduce you."

 _Another American friend. Crap. I'm probably not getting invited to a threesome._

The other American friend proved to be a brown haired man with a short beard sitting at a table over near the corner wearing jeans, sneakers, and a white long sleeve shirt, untucked. It was almost a uniform among many of the men in the club. He might be American, but he could have passed for a local. A bottle of Starogradsko Dark sat on the table in front of him.

"This is Luke," she said. "Luke, this is Jerry. He's from America."

"Nice to meet a fellow American," Jerry said, extending his hand.

"Have a seat," Luke replied, without offering his hand. "Welcome to Macedonia."

"I'll be back," Marta said, and headed off in the direction of the restrooms.

'What brings you to Skopje?" Luke asked.

"Vaycay. You?"

"I'm sort of an expatriate. Kind of bumming around right now. So how are you liking the place so far?"

"It's great. I always wanted to see Europe, ya know. Are you and Marta..."

"No," Luke interrupted, smiling. "We're not. Actually, we're leaving here in a few minutes to go to a party. You wanna come? There'll be drinks, and lots of unattached women."

"Sounds good. Expatriate, huh?"

"Yeah, I made some money working the fracking fields out West. I wanted to see the world."

"I know what you mean," Jerry said. "I wanted a change. They said the women were...different over here."

'Different?"

"You know. Hotter. More feminine. I mean, look around you, man. Not nearly as many fatties."

Luke smiled, and drained the rest of his Starogradsko. "I see what you mean. So you're here to meet women?"

"Among other things. But mostly that. How long have you been here?"

"I've been in Skopje about a month, but I've been traveling for a while. Since back in March."

"Fracking must pay good."

"You have no idea. And you have no idea how cold North Dakota gets in the winter, either. I had to get away for a while. What do you do?"

"I work for an insurance company in Philadelphia."

Another song was starting up, making conversation difficult. Luke said something, but Jerry couldn't quite make it out. He leaned closer. ""Couldn't hear you," he said.

"We're leaving," Luke replied. "Are you coming with us?"

He was aware of Marta leaning over his shoulder. "Let's go," she said.

"OK"

IV

"How far is this place?" Jerry asked.

They were in Marta's blue Ford Focus, which had been parked down the street from Branko's She drove, Jerry sat next to her, and Luke sat in the back. They drove beneath a Moonless, overcast sky past the edge of town. The two lane road, the Ulica Radovan Somethingorother passed beneath the massive concrete overpass of a four lane highway into what looked like farming country, with broad empty fields on either side stretching out into the darkness.

"It's over in Arachinova," Marta explained. "Just a few kilometers."

"So who are these friends of yours?"

"There are some people I went to University with They have a villa outside of Arachinova. They have parties. He works for the film ministry now."

"They have one?"

"Yes," she laughed. "We have movies here and everything. All of the modern conveniences. I had a bit part in a movie once, called The Gray Falcon."

"You're an actress?" Jerry asked.

"I've tried to be. I had one small part in one movie. All I did in it was get shot by the Germans. I tried to get a part in a movie about zombies. That would have been a small part as well. Instead of being killed by the Germans I would have been killed by the zombies. But they liked someone else better. Who knows? Maybe she slept with the director."

"So what do you do now?"

"I am an administrative assistant."

"This villa must be out in the middle of nowhere," Jerry said.

Mark dropped a wire loop over Jerry's head and tightened it, choking off his air. Jerry convulsively grabbed for loop around his neck, his fingers trying to gain purchase. He made a gurgling sound that might have been a plea Mark kept the pressure on while Jerry thrashed frantically. Mark felt the car come to a sudden halt as Marta slammed on the brakes. The sudden deceleration threw Jerry's head forward, further tightening the choke wire around his neck.

Marta pulled a syringe from her pocket, quickly removed the plastic cover over the needle, and stabbed it into the large muscle of Jerry's thigh, her thumb pressing down on the plunger. The effect was almost immediate. Within seconds, Jerry's became feeble, and then stopped. His hands fell to his side and his head slumped forward, spittle running down from his mouth.

Mark released the pressure on the garotte, and checked Jerry's pulse by placing a finger on the carotid artery of his neck. He nodded wordlessly at Marta, and opened the car door to get out.

V

Jerry came awake, and felt himself being carried in a fireman's carry across someone's shoulder. Luke. His hands, he realized, were bound behind his back. He was groggy, weak, and unable to fight. He felt himself being dropped, and landed on something hard. But he hadn't dropped far. He managed to turn and look up. He was in the trunk of the car. And the trunk was lined with plastic.

The lid of the trunk slammed shut.

VI

Marta drove them down a dark empty road that was now sloping sharply upwards.

"What do they call this mountain again?" Luke asked.

"In Macedonian it's the Skopska Crna Gora. In English it means the Black Mountain of Skopje. But the Turks call it the Karadag."

"That's how it is here," he mused. "Everything has more than one name."

"Yes," she said. "Including you." She sat in silence for a moment. "I do not think you should use your brother's name as an alias."

"They're not going around arresting guys named Luke. And what would you know about it anyway?"

"I know that you should be more careful."

"We were careful."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "The man who hunts you. I read about him, just as I read about you. He won't give up. And if there is anything at all unusual in your life..."

"The name Luke isn't unusual," he said angrily.

"Time is against you," she said. "You said it yourself. Weston is searching for your family's money. When he finds the last of it..."

"What do you care about it?" he snarled. "Maybe you're looking for my family's money."

"That's ridiculous. If I only wanted money I could collect the reward. You should talk to Dusko. He could help you. He knows people"

"You'd never live to collect the reward. And how do I know you aren't working for Dusko?"

"Of course I work for Dusko. How do you think I live? I'm not really an administrative assistant, and that acting job didn't pay very much."

" All right, then. I'll call him. Pull off here," he said, pointing to a dirt road that led into some woods.

VII

He lifted up the lid of the trunk, revealing, in the beam of the flashlight she held, a terrified man, his hands and feet zip tied and his mouth sealed shut with duct tape, lying on the clear plastic liner. Jerry.

"You want to do the honors?" he asked.

She hesitated, but then nodded, the ghost of a smile on her face. He handed her a knife with a smooth and slightly greasy feeling black handle and a steel blade reminiscent of an American K-Bar. The man he'd bought it from had told him it was Russian army issue. She took it in her hand, and gave him her flashlight. He reached down and grabbed Jerry by the hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat to the blade.

She bent down, knife in hand, to reach the struggling victim. "That's it," he said. "Just like that. Right across the jugular. Good girl." She back away quickly, startled at the spray of bright warm arterial blood. "It's OK," he assured her. "I've got some bottled water. We can clean that right off your hands. And we just wrap Jerry up in plastic for clean and sanitary disposal. No fuss, no muss, no bother. So how was your first time, babe? Was it good for you too?"

VIII

Marta looked out her bedroom window at the café across the narrow cobblestone street. They'd slept late, spending the night at her flat, with her taking the couch. She'd considered trying again to seduce him, but he had become so agitated and angry the last time that she was afraid to try it again. She'd called Dusko after breakfast at the café across the street. He would be here soon, and she hoped Mark would be in a better mood than when he'd got up. Mark's moods were unpredictable, and whatever release he'd got from last night's kill had worn off by the time he'd awakened.

"He should be here by now."

She turned to find Mark standing behind her. "He's only a few minutes late. Give him time. Dusko will call, if he needs to cancel for some reason."

"How did you meet him?"

"He hung around the campus when I was at University. Afterwards jobs were scarce. Dusko was well traveled. He'd been to many places. Germany, Ukraine, all over the Balkans. He took me on a couple of business trips. He said a couple was less conspicuous than one man alone. The intrigue was romantic, and it gave me a chance to travel some. Later, I did a few jobs for him."

"I can imagine."

"I was never a whore," she said icily.

"It was just money? Or you loved him? Or did you believe?"

"It was romantic. And Dusko believed, and sometimes I believed in him. And I needed the money."

A knock sounded at the door.

"That's him," she said, and went to answer.

Mark followed her to the tiny living room. She looked out the peephole in the door, and then opened the door to reveal a bear of a man wearing jeans, sneakers, and a tan pullover hoodie. He was fair skinned, with an angular face, brown hair cut short, and a short, neatly trimmed beard. The hoodie fit loosely, but not loosely enough to conceal his powerful build.

"Marta," he said, holding put his arms to embrace her, "it's good to see you."

She hugged him warmly. "Come in, Dusko. I want you to meet someone."

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I am Dusko Ivanovich," he said.

"Dusko," she said, "I introduce Mister Mark Gray."

"I've heard so much about you," Dusko said.

IX

Dusko took a sip of the tea Marta had made for them, and placed the cup back on the small dining table. "We are really not as different as you think," he said. "When the Twin Towers were brought down, some commentator said it was a work of art. Said it admiringly, in fact. But murder is often a work of art, and not just when it's done on a mass scale. Joe Carroll was an artist, as was..."

"Let's get to the point," Mark interrupted. "I want Mike Weston dead."

"And you think we can help."

"You can help. Question is will you."

"You understand we'll want something in return."

"I kill Weston myself," Mark said. "Even if I had the money, I wouldn't pay you. This is personal to me, it's not a cause."

"Mr Gray, I wouldn't take your money if you offered it. So both of us take money out of the equation. And as for Weston's death...I'll have to take that to my people. For them, this is part of a larger plan. Remember, this is a work of art. And it has to speak to people, and open their minds to new ideas."

"Your people. So you're not the one in charge. Marta said..."

"I work for myself. But I'm...brokering this deal for some other people."

"So who are they? And who's in charge?"

"That would be Zamir. You'll meet him later, if he agrees to work with you."

"I kill Weston myself. I need help trapping him. You tell this Zamir character. If you want to make videos of it, that's fine. In fact, that's exactly what I want."

Dusko stood. "I'll tell them. We'll speak again. And Mister Gray, when you do meet Zamir, please remember that he is a man to be treated with respect."

X

Zamir kept a safe house in a flat above a café on the Ulica Bogdan Kabulska. It was a blocky, four story building with a forest of satellite dishes on the roof. Zamir's flat was on the fourth floor, and commanded a view, in the distance, of the Stone Bridge. Much closer was a row of small shops across the street. There was no parking on these narrow streets, and Dusko had walked a long evasive rout from the bus station to get here, carefully checking for surveillance as he went.

The place was Spartan, since no one lived there full time. There wasn't much furniture and what there was had seen better days. Zamir wasn't a tall man, only about 170 centimeters, but was was powerfully built, with arms like a blacksmith. He had a broad face, and short blond hair with widow's peaks and fair skin. He sat in a chair with wooden arms and cushions upholstered with ratty gray vinyl that might have been castoff office furniture. Dusko sat on couch with the same gray vinyl upholstery. A cheap writing desk with spindly legs was placed by the window, but there was no sign that anyone had ever done any work there. Well, office furniture was fitting, Dusko thought. This wasn't really a residence, it was a place of business.

"Is she in love with him?" Zamir asked.

"Very likely," Dusko replied. "He's damaged, and dangerous, and she finds this romantic. She read a lot about him, and about the Joe Caroll and Lily Gray cases. I think if she lived in America, she would have ended up as someone's follower, as they put it."

"And yet she brought him to your attention."

"Yes. She met him, and recognized him She found him attractive. This was over a month ago. She didn't come to me until just a few days ago. She wants to help him."

"And what does she think is going to happen?"

"She hopes to be paid for helping deliver Mike Weston to us. And she hopes to help Mark Gray by having Weston killed."

Zamir shook his head sadly. "That plan has a number of flaws in it. She hasn't thought this all the way through."

"So the answer is no?"

"The answer is yes," Zamir said. " But afterwards...she'll have to eliminated. They both will. Mark Gray is radioactive. I'm sorry that she has bad taste in men, present company excepted, of course. Some American once said that three may keep a secret if two are dead."

"Mark Gray wants to kill Weston himself," Dusko said. "In fact he insists on it."

" We'll promise him what he wants, but my principals have specific requirements. And the final say."

"Who are your principals?" Dusko asked.

"That's not relevant. To you, at any rate."

"Is it relevant to you?" Dusko asked.

Zamir gave a slight shrug. "You'll get your finder's fee after I meet Gray, and I'm satisfied we can work with him. Or at least keep him under control until he's served his purpose."

'When do you want to meet Gray?"

"Tomorrow. Tell Mister Gray. That should give me time to make some phone calls. And we'll see if he can be discreet for that length of time."

XI

 _New York City, 48 Hours Ago_

The window of Eliza's office on the 23rd floor looked out at the towers of Manhattan on a glorious late summer day. It would be fall in a couple of weeks, and while it was getting cool at night, it was still warm and perfect in the daytime. She wanted to get outdoors after work and enjoy some of it. For now, she was taking a short break. A cup of Masala Chai sat on the broad expanse of desk in front of her. Next to it, a small dish held a few ginger cookies.

Her company, ZR Security Ops , had been founded by her late father, Colonel Peter Getman, after he retired from the US Army. ZR provided hired guns for bodyguarding, security, and paramilitary operations all over the world. It protected corporate executives, ambassadors, and VIPs of all sorts. It guarded black sites for the US intelligence community. It protected mines and oil platforms in unstable countries. It helped train police, military personnel, and intelligence operatives in several nations, including the US.

And it also protected the Organization.

Eliza, who had studied under Dr Arthur Strauss, used her father's private military contracting company to provide security, firepower, and muscle for an organization of wealthy and powerful serial killers. On the outside, ZR provided security and hired guns for legitimate customers, including the United States Government. Behind the scenes, it engaged in human trafficking, kidnaping, murder for hire, and much more besides. In many ways, it was the ultimate black op, and Eliza was at the center of it.

Her phone signaled that she had received a text. She set down her cup and checked her messages. There was one from a number she did not recognize. It would be a burner. The message read "We're getting together at The Four Winds Bar at 6."

She texted back "OK". She gathered up a file on her desk that she had been reading and slipped the papers back into their folder. She carried the file to a cabinet and opened up a door in the bottom of it to reveal a safe. She spun the combination and placed the file inside. Then she walked out of her office to the reception area . Her secretary, a slender woman with short dark blonde hair named Alyssa, had a word processing program open on her monitor. "Alyssa, I'll have to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I need to take care of something."

"Yes Ma'am."

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. She would not go straight to her destination. Before that, she would carefully run a surveillance detection rout and make sure she was not being followed.

XII

She watched the world go by from a table by the window of a wine bar on Long Island , pretending to sip a glass of Merlot and feigning interest in something on her phone while waiting for her contact to arrive. He wasn't her boss, that was the Chairman, the head of the Organization. He wasn't exactly her boss' boss either, because there wasn't really a rigid table of organization. But setting the Organization up had been a formidable undertaking, and at the time, it had taken some help. The organization wasn't anyone's wholly owned subsidiary, but favors were owed, and service was expected. She thought of it sometimes as a giant squid. That squid had tentacles, and in the scheme of things, the Organization was only one of them. The man she was about to meet could be thought of as a liaison, and he was a man to be dealt with carefully.

She checked the time. He would arrive shortly. She got up, leaving her wine on the table, and walked out. She waited on the sidewalk at an intersection. Traffic was one way here. She was at the end of a row of small shops. A delivery truck was parked just up the road, its driver carrying barrels of soft drink syrup into a restaurant. A couple of bicycles were chained to a stand in front of the wine bar. Traffic on the four lane cross street was heavy at this hour of the afternoon.

She spotted the dark gray Lexus LX approaching from up the one way street. This one was modified with armor and a partition that separated the passengers from the driver. Those sort of mods were expensive, but money was no object when it came to his comfort, convenience, or safety.

The Lexus stopped in front of her, and she stepped off the curb and entered quickly, closing the door behind her. In the back seat next to her sat a dark haired man with a short, neatly trimmed beard. He might have been thirty. He might have been fifty. His coal black hair was thick and tousled in a way that takes some effort to achieve. No hint of gray, but the face was hard. Not the face of a young man. He wore a black pullover and jeans with a Max Toney suit jacket. She had never seen him in jeans before.

The driver pulled away from the curb, and turned right onto the four lane road. They were headed east towards I 278. "You're looking well," he said.

"Thank you. Dress down day at the office?"

"Actually, it's a day off. Or it was. A perfectly good day off that was shot to hell by a message I got this morning. They've got a line on Mark Gray. I knew you'd want to be told as soon as possible."

"Where?" she asked. "And who are they?"

"Where is Skopje. And they are CIA."

"How did the Agency get on to him?"

"I don't know yet. All I've seen is the Tier 2 report, with the source edited out. The actual Tier 3, with the source identity included, I haven't seen. *** But I don't think it was an intercept. CIA has a human source for this, I'm sure." He took a flash drive out of the pocket of his suit coat and handed it to her. "The Tier 2 report is on that flash drive."

"Can you get access to the Tier 3?"

"I'm working on it. So what's your interest in this? Why do you care about Mark Gray?"

"I think he's a risk. And I think he should be eliminated."

"Risk in what way?"

"Because Ryan Hardy and his crew took almost no one alive. Strauss was in contact with Joe Carroll, and Hardy found Strauss. Carroll was in contact with Lily Gray and her disgusting brood. And because the FBI took no prisoners, we have no idea who told what to whom."

"You're serious? Isn't that a bit paranoid?"

"Paranoia," she said,"is part of my job description. It's actually one of my best qualities. People fail to appreciate my paranoia, even when it's keeping them off Death Row."

"I've always appreciated your good qualities," he grinned. After a moment, he grew more serious. "Strauss hasn't said anything to the FBI, and the Chairman doesn't think he ever will."

"The Chairman is a student, and Doctor Strauss has kept in touch with him for years. He knows about the Organization."

"You're a student too," he said. "And you of all people know the bond the good Doctor's students have with him. Strauss hasn't said anything so far, and why would he? Given what he's done, it's not like they're going to give him immunity, even if he talks. And he kept everything compartmented. You said so yourself."

"And yet he's in jail, like Joe Carroll. And I'm more worried about Carroll. What did he know, and who did he tell? Doctor Strauss had a special place in his heart for Joe Carroll. God only knows why, the man is a study in smug. A gigantic walking ego, and he had big plans. All I'm saying is better safe than sorry. I don't want Mark Gray talking into a microphone at One Federal Plaza."

"You mean you're actually going after him?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"For one thing, you're indispensable to the Organization. Frankly, I'd send a hundred guys before I'd send you."

"You're not sending me," she said. "I'm going on my own. Get me the Tier 3 Report."

"I'll get you the report, but the trip may be completely unnecessary."

'What do you mean?" she asked.

"There's an operation in the works to capture Gray. Macedonia is a nonextradition country, so they've decided they have to go in and get him. Now CIA, by statute, can't do tactical law enforcement, so they put in a call to the FBI. And the Bureau is sending someone."****

"Who?"

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count."

She shook her head in apparent disbelief. " My God. Do these people never learn? What do they think is going to happen?"

"Beats me, but somehow I don't think Mike Weston is planning to take Gray alive."

She gave a snort of derision. "Mike Weston left Ryan Hardy's niece to go chasing after Gray. Tells me how smart he is. He'll end up as hamburger. Get me the Tier 3."

"As long as I've got you here," he said, "I was wondering if you could do something for me."

"What?"

"I've got a guy who needs a job. Former Company man. Cratered his career in Iraq."

"What did he do?" she asked.

"Went rogue. He's good. He took out a guy that was funneling cash to Al Qaeda. But the guy was a Saudi royal, and there was a stink about it. He's an independent contractor these days."

"OK, but I want to see his dossier, and I want to meet him."

"You'll like him. Once you get used to him. His name's Derek."

XIII

The Shoreditch Hotel was located near Madison Square Garden. It was well below Eliza's usual standards, but good enough for a quick meeting. She had Kaminsky book a room, and he and Stinnes took up position on 7th Avenue to watch for the approach of Julianna Barnes. Eliza sat on a leather couch by a window that looked out on a medical building and a nail salon across a narrow street. She looked at her phone, scrolling down a list of emails and reading a few that looked important, but it was hard to concentrate. She had a lot on her mind, and Julianna was late.

Her phone buzzed. Kaminsky. "Yes?"

"She's here, Ma'am."

"Thank you."

She pocketed her phone, stood, and waited by the door. A few minutes later there was a knock. A look through the peephole confirmed that it was Juliana. She opened the door. "About bloody time."

"I had to work late," Julianna said, as she stepped inside.

"You work for me now," Eliza replied, and produced an envelope from the inside pocket of the lambskin moto jacket she wore over her white poplin shirt and wool pants.

Julianna opened the envelope and examined the contents. Inside was a thick wad of bills.

"You'll get a hundred thousand all told," Eliza said. "That's a down payment. You won't get it all at once. That's to keep you from doing anything that draws attention. God's mercy on you if you do that. When you get home, start packing. You're going to Europe."

"But I don't have any time off," Julianna protested.

"Then have a family emergency. Call in sick. I don't care."

"But I don't have a passport."

"Yes you do. You'll have a complete set of papers. That's why we had you sit for a few pictures. You'll be going as Marissa Clark. Julianna Barnes can't leave a paper trail.".

"Why do I have to go?" Julianna asked.

"For your health," Eliza said. "Not going would be very unhealthy."

"What am I supposed to do there?"

"You're going to make contact with Mark Gray," Eliza replied. "We need him."

"Arthur told me I wouldn't have to do anything like that."

"Arthur, as you put it, is in jail. He'll tell you anything."

"Why do we need Mark Gray?" Julianna asked. " That's not part of the plan. Can't you kill Ryan Hardy's people yourself? You have all these men working for you. And you have Daisy. Kyle. You should be able to do this."

Eliza had a brief mental image of Julianna strapped to an operating table and awaiting her attentions. "Because," she explained patiently, "I'm changing the plan. I have to. Doctor Strauss has been in jail for a while, and I think it's affected him. Dulled his thinking a bit. When we kill everyone Ryan Hardy loves, it has to look like the work of more than one person. Mike Weston plus Max Hardy dead equals Doctor Strauss. We need someone with a motive to kill Mike Weston."

"Why not send Kyle and Daisy to contact Mark?"

"They have their own part to play. Everything has to be compartmented."

"You're sending me because you won't risk your precious students," Julianna said accusingly. "Gray is dangerous, and you think I'm expendable."

 _So you're not as stupid as you sometimes look._ "I can't be directly involved because my organization demands it. We stay below the surface. Kyle and Daisy can't be involved because they might be linked to Doctor Strauss. You understand? When this is over, it never happened, and we don't exist. I'm sending two men with you. They'll keep an eye on you, for your protection. And mine."

"When do we leave?"

"In two or three days." She took a phone from her jacket pocket and handed it to Julianna. "That's a burner. We'll call you on it to inform you of our departure time. And one other thing." Eliza reached into her pocket, and took out a plastic bracelet with a bar code. "Keep that. Do not lose it. When we leave, you won't be going to Europe direct. There will be a stop at the House. I'll meet you there. That will get you past the gate. No more recognition codes. I'll meet you at the House before we leave for Europe."

"Why go to the House?" Julianna asked.

"You'll see. You do as you're told, and you'll be with... Arthur. And you'll have some money to show for it. Which I know you need. But you have to do as I say. No questions. You understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Keep that phone handy. We'll be in touch."

XIV

 _MacLean, Virginia, 12 Hours Ago_

Eliza's office at the House was windowless, and there were no clocks, so there was no obvious sign that it was nearly midnight. She had brought some paperwork from ZR that she needed to catch up before she boarded the plane for Skopje. She didn't mind working late. She'd never been a morning person, and given a choice, she'd likely keep what she described jokingly as "vampire hours" She'd always loved sleeping late, and she loved the night. Running her business meant that she could rarely keep the hours she preferred.

Her phone buzzed for attention. Kaminsky. She picked it up. "Tell me that she's here."

"She's here, Ma'am."

"Well better late than never, I suppose. Take her to one of the guest bedrooms, and leave her alone for thirty minutes. Keep an eye on her over the vidcams. Let her sweat for a while. Then bring her to the operating room."

"Yes Ma'am."

She rose, and went to the bedroom where she changed into blue surgical scrubs. She then headed downstairs to prepare for Julianna's arrival.

XV

The basement of the house had been subdivided into a warren of soundproof rooms which normally were kept locked. Tonight, with no guests present and no party taking place, Eliza had left the doors open so that Julianna could see inside each room when she was brought downstairs and marched down the corridor. She wanted Julianna to see the holding cages, the torture devices, the acid vats for disposing of bodies.

But the room at the end of corridor - the operating room, was kept closed. No sense in spoiling the surprise too soon.

Stinnes and Kaminsky brought Julianna downstairs, and walked closely behind her. She looked in the rooms as she passed each one, and up ahead she could see Eliza in her blue scrubs. By the time she reached the last door, the one Eliza had left closed, she was shaking with fear.

"Why are you dressed like that?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"So that I don't get blood all over my clothes," Eliza replied.

It was then that Julianna panicked. She turned and tried to bolt, but Stinnes and Kaminsky grabbed her, and held her, and marched her through the now open door of the operating room while Eliza watched, smirking.

In the center of the room, lying on an articulated steel table fitted with straps, was a young man in his early twenties. A rubber bit was fitted into his mouth and held in place by a kind of clamp around his head. He was naked, and he was conscious.

"What are you going to do?" Julianna sobbed.

"I have bought you," Eliza said calmly. "And I own you. You might have gotten into this on account of Doctor Strauss, but I own you now. And I'm not happy with your attitude. Also, I want you to understand what can happen if you double cross me, by, for example, not coming across with that decryption key when the time comes. So it's time for a demonstration. I want you to see just how long I can keep this man conscious, and screaming."

XVI

They'd need a cleanup crew for the operating room, since Eliza didn't clean up after herself following a vivisection. The length of meat on the operating table, now laid open, its major organs in jars on the countertop along the back wall, the blood everywhere, the vomit in the corner where Julianna had thrown up, all would be taken care of. Eliza, standing by the sink, stripped off her bloody gloves and tossed then into a wastebasket. Her blue scrubs were splattered with gore. They would have to go into the trash as well.

Kaminsky stood by, watching her, seemingly oblivious to the horror around him. Stinnes was helping Julianna back to the guest room.

"I'll be leaving in a few hours," Eliza said. "You and Stinnes will follow 24 hours later with Julianna. Just keep an eye on her. I'll need to find Gray first. Once I've done that, I'll contact you. We have to move fast, because Julianna can't go missing for too long. Stan The Man is arranging our equipment packages. He'll contact you when you arrive. He'll also be your contact if it goes to hell, and you have to escape and evade."

"Understood. Good luck, Ma'am."

" Thanks," she said. "You too." She looked down at her gore spattered scrubs, and grinned. "Guess I better shower and change before I head for airport."

XVII

 _Dulles International Airport_ , _8 Hours Ago_

Eliza found him alone, waiting in a gunmetal blue Volvo S90 parked in a deck off Aviation Drive. She got in beside him and closed the door. "I was getting worried," she said.

"These things take time," he replied. "But I got a look at the Tier 3 case file. The guy who ratted Gray is named Dusko Ivanovich. He's Croatian. He's got contacts all over the Balkans. He's been selling intel for years to whoever will pay. Today it's us. Tomorrow it'll be NATO. Next week it'll be the Russians. Apparently a girl he uses as a courier spotted Gray in Skopje, took it to Ivanovich, and they're looking to collect the reward. I'm sending you the report encrypted."

"A girl?" Eliza said doubtfully.

"Awfully convenient isn't it? It occurs to me that if this is a trap, you'd be better off letting it slam shut on Weston."

"If he expects to collect the reward, then he has to show them something. He has to deliver. Do we know anything about this girl?"

"It's in the report. Look, we've got a lot invested in you. We disappeared your father's body. We got him declared dead years earlier than would have normally been the case, just so you could inherit. Just so you could use his company to do jobs for us. I've gone along with this so far, but I'm starting to wonder what you're not telling me."

 _Careful here. He can order you to stand down._

"Mike Weston is Ryan Hardy's best friend, and Ryan Hardy remained in the FBI. I don't know if Gray knows anything about us. I don't know what else there is to find. Maybe nothing. But whatever there is to find, Ryan Hardy will find it. I want this taken care of before Ryan Hardy decides to get involved."

He stared out the windshield in the general direction of the elevator, lost in thought. "All right, then," he said at last. "Like they said on the old TV show, be careful out there."

Musical Interlude - I Have A Need by Black Light Burns

And from Branko's - Kill Me Every Time by Blue Stahli

========Chapter Notes========

* Pronounced SKOHP-ee-yuh. You can hear it pronounced on Wikipedia. Whenever you encounter a j in the local languages, it's usually pronounced like an English y or like ia (As in Sofia or Utopia) . Don't ask me why. Macedonia is located just north of Greece. It was once a part of Yugoslavia, which collapsed and broke up in the 1990s in an orgy of civil war and ethnic killing that eventually led to military intervention by the US and NATO. Search engine if you're interested. For reasons that would take too long to explain here, Macedonia's full and proper name is the Former Yugoslav Republic Of Macedonia, and it is sometimes marked on the map as FYRO Macedonia.

**Pick Up Artist. PUA web sites, offering men so called "Red Pill" advice on how to succeed with women have proliferated on the web. I take no position on the matter. Sometimes they extol the advantages of foreign women over their American counterparts. I take no position on that either, but spending a lot of money on a plane ticket to go pick up women overseas might prove an expensive way of finding out that the problem is you and not the women.

*** For security, intelligence data is organized in tiers, and only certain people are allowed access to each level. Tier 1 is mostly low level administrative material. Tier 2 are actual intelligence reports with the source edited out. This is to prevent, for example, the name of an agent being revealed when a report sent by that agent is disseminated. Tier 3 identifies actual intelligence sources, such as wiretaps, communications intercepts, or the names of agents. For obvious reasons, Tier 3 data is guarded very carefully, and only a small number of people should have access to it.

**** The Following sometimes referred to "non extradition countries", meaning countries that don't have an extradition treaty with the United States and therefore aren't obligated to hand accused criminals over the US to face trial. Macedonia, as of this writing, has no extradition treaty with America. Of course a country without an extradition treaty may still choose to extradite a suspect if the US asks, but the answer may be no. For that matter, even if there is a treaty, the answer may still be no, because countries that sign extradition treaties don't always keep them.

The FBI can arrest a suspect anywhere in the world, and so far as the Federal courts are concerned, it's perfectly legal. The same goes for other law enforcement agencies like the Coast Guard, or even a bounty hunter in cases where a suspect has jumped bail. If you're in court, and charged with a crime, they'll put you on trial. They really don't care how you got there.

The CIA, by law, is not allowed to make arrests. They do, within certain limits, operate inside the US. The FBI began operating outside the US during World War II., but its overseas operations became much larger after 9-11. Since then, it has opened sixteen new overseas offices. The relationship between the FBI and CIA is complicated, and not always friendly. Entire books have been written about it, and I won't even try to deal with it in detail here.

23


	2. We're All Criminals Here

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

I've gotten some guest reviews. My thanks to those who posted them. Feedback, positive or negative, is always appreciated.

Chapter 2 - We're All Criminals Here

 _Quantico, Virginia, September 11_ _th_ _, 2014_

 _Now_

Director Franklin stood on the stage of the auditorium addressing the first class of New Agent Trainees to graduate from the FBI academy at Quantico in over two years. Behind him were the blue drapes across the back of the stage, the giant FBI seal, and on either side, the American flags on short indoor poles.

"Earlier this year," Franklin said, "the FBI marked it's 100th anniversary. Over the course of a century, the Bureau has changed and grown to face new challenges, and new threats. You are the first class to graduate since 2012, and you are needed on the front lines. Until now, you have been New Agent Trainees. Today, you become Special Agents, charged with protecting the American people from threats ranging from organized crime, to cyber crime, to terrorism. Much will be expected of you, because we live in a dangerous world. But I know you will rise to the challenge, and protect our nation and our way of life with the same courage, ingenuity, and resolve that Special Agents have shown for a hundred years. And now, if you are ready to join the ranks of a Bureau that has, for a century, stood in the defense of our people, our Constitution, our freedoms, our civil rights, and our way of life, then stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me."

It was a moment she had dreamed of for years. She hadn't even told anyone when she had first applied, not even Ryan. She was afraid she wouldn't be accepted, and she didn't want Ryan to see her fail. And now, after six months of hard work, here she was, along with forty-six other newly minted Special Agents, achieving a years long dream that had begun early in her career with the NYPD'

" _I, Maxine Hardy, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."_

"Congratulations," Franklin said. "And welcome to the FBI."

II

She worked her way slowly towards the back of the auditorium past happy families enjoying a proud moment with their son, daughter, husband, sister, or other relative who had just graduated from Quantico. Aunt Jenny had planned to be here, but a last minute bout of stomach flu had forced her to cancel. She had called Max the night before apologizing profusely, but it was impossible for her to travel at the moment. Max understood, of course, but looking around at the groups of people, she felt Jenny's absence keenly. _The biggest day of my life, and I've got almost no one to share it with, except..._

"Ryan!" She spotted him across the lobby as the exited the auditorium, and began pushing towards him. They met halfway, and she threw herself into his arms.

"I'm so glad you could make it," she said.

"No way would I miss this."

"How's Jenny? Have you talked to her today?"

"Yeah, I called her right before the graduation started. She's better today. She actually had to go to the ER last night. They didn't admit her, but they gave her IV fluids and some meds. She said whatever they gave her really helped. She definitely sounded better."

"That's good. Too bad she couldn't make it."

"Yeah. I wish Ray could be here. God, he'd be so proud of you."

"And I wish..." she hesitated. "I wish Mom was here." She had started to say Mike.

"Yeah," Ryan said, "Her too." He smiled, but his eyes betrayed that he knew what she'd been about to say.

"I've got us some reservations," Ryan said. "The Emerywood up in Woodbridge."

"That's kind of pricey, isn't it?"

"Nothing but the best for my niece. I'm buying."

III

The Emerywood was built to resemble a colonial tidewater style house, if colonial tidewater style houses had been built in the shadow of a four lane highway bridge over the Occoquan river. There were outdoor tables on a broad expanse of wooden deck behind the building, cooled by ceiling fans. There was a marina behind the restaurant, and about a dozen power boats were tied up at the three piers that jutted out into the river. Ryan had been able to reserve an outdoor table. Max ordered a crab cake sandwich and potato salad.. She might have gotten a glass of wine, but mindful of Ryan's alcoholism opted for the iced tea. It was served Southern style, meaning with enough sugar that you could leave a thumb print in it. Ryan was demolishing something called a shrimp and oyster po boy, which resembled a seafood sub.

She looked out at the river. A couple of people in kayaks were paddling by, apparently looking for a landing, and one of them was pointing at one of the many No Trespassing signs posted along the river's edge. "So what have they got you working on these days?" She asked. "More serial killers?"

"Actually, they've got me working organized crime. These guys have been leaning on some stock analysts to produce bogus research reports. They can use that to manipulate the prices of certain stocks. There's a lot of money in that potentially. A couple of the analysts they leaned on went fishing week before last and never came back."

"Sounds like an interesting case."

"It is," Ryan said. He dabbed at a spot of white sauce on his jacket with a napkin. "You know, I still can't believe you didn't tell me you'd applied."

"Part of it," she explained, "was bad timing. I put in my application before we got together. I applied in 2012. . The hiring freeze had hit by the time we worked together on Joe Carroll and Lily Gray. So my application wasn't going anywhere any time soon. So the subject really never came up."*

"Oh come on. There was time before Joe resurfaced and time after."

"I was going to tell you if I got accepted," she explained.

" You were afraid they wouldn't take you. And you didn't want me to know if they rejected your application."

Max grinned sheepishly. "OK. So I'm busted."

" I would have never doubted you. When you get back to New York, maybe you can help me nail these syndicate guys."

She hesitated for a moment. She had been dreading this conversation. " Actually, I put in for Los Angeles or Seattle."

Ryan looked as though he had been clouted on the head. "Why? I thought you'd want to come home. "

"It's a chance to travel. And they need people out there to work cybercrimes because of all the tech companies."

"But that's not the real reason."

"I can't go back to that apartment."

"Did you ever even tell Mike you'd applied?"

"No," she replied. "I meant to. But when we got together, finally, I thought that maybe I'd stay with him instead. Just...be together. Make a life together. He was talking about going after Mark, and I thought that if I stayed with him, maybe he wouldn't. But he left, and they were asking me to report to Quantico, and with Mike gone, it was like the walls were moving in."

"Joining the Bureau was important to you. Mike wouldn't have asked you to give that up."

"Being with Mike was important to me."

"I was hoping that we'd get to see more of each other. That we'd work together. Spend time together... Let me ask you this. Are you so sure Mike isn't coming back?"

"He doesn't call, he doesn't write."

"Do you?," Ryan asked. Max hung her head slightly, without answering. "I know you're hurt," Ryan continued. "I think he knows he shouldn't have left. And maybe he can't admit that, not even to himself. Sooner or later, they'll order him to come home. He can't stay out there forever. Now I'm not saying that he'll come back, or that you should take him back. But if you go to Los Angeles or wherever, you're closing off the possibility. And besides, moving just isn't the solution. You can't run away from this. Whatever happens, you have to get some kind of closure."

"It's closed, OK?"

He shook his head. "No it's not. Look, all I'm saying is that we don't have any family, apart from each other. Going to Los Angeles won't bring Mike back, and it won't make it hurt any less. If you like, I know some people I could talk to. If you want to be assigned to New York City, I can call in a couple of favors. Stay in New York for a while. See how it goes. If you don't like it, if you change your mind, you can always put in for a transfer. If you want to work cybercrimes, then believe me, we've got 'em. We've got investigations ongoing right now of computer hacking and embezzlement cases against major banks and financial companies that run into the billions with a B. We've got computer espionage cases, and New York is terrorist target number one. That includes possible cyber attacks. It's the largest, most important field office the Bureau has. It's where the action is. You can make a real difference. And you joined the Bureau to make a real difference. And oh yeah, we could still see something of each other."

She watched as the kayakers turned away from the shore and headed downstream. "I don't want to be seen getting a posting just because you're my uncle."

"Have you actually looked at your transcripts? With your marks, they'll give you your first choice of assignments. . And it's not like they don't need people in Manhattan. What with the idiots in Washington bickering like children, this is the first new class we've gotten in two years. We've got holes in the lineup to fill. I can help you get your assignment changed to the one you really want. If you ask for New York, they'll give it to you, and Gina would love to get someone with your qualifications."

She broke into a smile. "I'm probably gonna regret this when it's the middle of a New York winter, and I'm thinking about sunny LA while trudging around in dirty snow. But OK. I'll do it."

IV

 _Skopje, Macedonia_

The hands of the clock on the front of the three story stone building didn't move. He wasn't sure if they ever had. He'd read that they were permanently frozen at 5:17am, the time when the city had been devastated by an earthquake in 1963 that had killed over a thousand people. The stonework along the left edge of the building looked jagged, as if it had been damaged by the earthquake and never repaired, although it was probably a deliberate design. The narrow grassy strip in front of the building sported a number of what looked like headstones. He couldn't read Macedonian, and had no idea who or what they commemorated. The flag that flew over the building looked like a psychedelic version of a World War II Japanese naval flag. He handed a few bills to the cabbie. Like the flag, they had a colorful, slightly psychedelic 60's look to them, though the pictures on them were mostly of ancient coins or statues, or religious icons. The city sometimes felt like a patina of modern scraped across stone that was ancient before Columbus ever made it to the New World.

The Museum Of The City of Skopje was mostly an art gallery, and Mike Weston wandered through the exhibits on the third floor pretending interest in the mostly abstract paintings that hung on stone walls painted white. There were sculptures as well, even more abstract than the paintings. Something that looked like an upside down cow's udder sat on a pedestal in the middle of the room. A pedestal next to it held a statue of the number eight, or maybe it was supposed to be a sideways symbol of infinity. He pretended interest in a painting of peasants gathering in a harvest. It was done in a garish color scheme that made him wonder if what they were harvesting was something that would send you on a trip if you ate or smoked it. There were three other people in the room with him, a pair of young men speaking quietly in what sounded like German, and a woman who fitted the description of his contact.

She had shoulder length dark blonde hair tied back in a braid. She was wearing olive colored skinny fit cargo pants, a loose charcoal pullover shirt and black walking shoes with purple trim. Even indoors, she kept her sunglasses on. The briefing packet they'd shown him in Paris had said she'd be wearing sunglasses.

Mike had given the FBI liaison office at the Paris embassy a written description of what he'd be wearing to make it easier for the CIA officer he was meeting to spot him. He wore khaki slacks, an untucked blue denim shirt, and walking shoes.

The blonde woman stepped away from the cow's udder sculpture she'd been studying and stood next to him, staring at the mushroom harvesting peasants. "Excuse me, sir, but do you know which room they use for the concerts?"

"It's downstairs," he replied. "The acoustics are much better down there."

"I thought they kept the ancient artifacts downstairs," she said.

"They do, but they don't get many visitors, so they mostly use it for music. I think they have a string quartet today."

"I love classical music. Are you planning to go?"

"I am," Mike answered. "Maybe we could go together."

"I'd like that. Let's go." She started walking towards the exit, and Mike followed.

V

She said she had a car parked in the lot next to the building. It turned out to be a silver BMW 3 Series. Well, the CIA probably gave her a bigger allowance than the Bureau gave him. He got in on the passenger side, and she eased out into the late afternoon traffic. The street had a long three word name and he had no idea how to pronounce it. He'd been able to find his way around in most of the places in Europe he'd been because a lot of people here seemed to speak English. He hoped that was true in Macedonia as well. He'd wondered, at times, why so many people here could speak more than one language when the Bureau had trouble even finding enough Spanish speakers, and there were millions of those in America.

"So you're the famous Mike Weston," she said.

"I'm not exactly famous."

"Yes you are. You helped get Joe Caroll and Lily Gray. You testified before Congress. That's famous. I watched you on TV. I was back in the States at the time."

"So you must be Amanda Kirkland."

"I must be."

"That your real name?"

"You ever work with CIA before?" she asked.

"No. You ever work with the FBI?"

"Unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?"

"You haven't worked with the Agency before. So here's how it is. We work low profile. That means no names. So today I'm Amanda Kirkland. Next week I'll be somebody else. The FBI didn't give you a cover, and the guy we're after knows you on sight. Which makes you a liability right out of the gate."

He looked at her wordlessly for moment. "I can tell I'm gonna love working with you. Where is Mark Gray now?"

" I don't know yet. They told you about Dusko Ivanovich, right?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "They said he was the guy who found Gray."

"Right. Well, he's looking to collect the reward, and he hasn't given us the exact address yet. I'm supposed to meet him tonight, and negotiate."

"You mean we're supposed to meet him tonight," Mike corrected. "Is that where you're going now?"

"Actually, I'm going out for dinner first . They sent me on kind of short notice. There hasn't been much time to eat. I haven't even had lunch."

"Where did they send you from?" he asked.

"We'll meet Ivanovich later, and get Mark Gray's location. Then I'll alert the team."

Mike decided that he was getting tired of her ignoring his questions. "Team?" he asked

"Yeah," she replied. "There's a military special ops team on standby. They'll do the actual takedown."

"I'm arresting him myself," Mike said.

"Do you have a gun?" she asked. "Because you couldn't take one through airport security, and you can't arrest him without a gun."

"They said you'd have one for me."

"The actual plan," she said, " is that you're taking delivery of him. We'll get his location, and then the team will go in. They'll hand him to you all tied up with a ribbon, you'll read him his rights, and then it's book 'em Danno, murder one."

"We're supposed to be working together," Mike objected. "As in a team. I'm not here to just take delivery. I'm here to make the arrest. So we need to be planning this together. And you need to be coming up with that gun. "

"Ok," she said. "So what do you feel like having for dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Yeah. Since we're a team, we can jointly decide what to have for dinner."

"We're jointly deciding a lot more than that."

"Whatever," she said, grinning. " But first we have to decide what to have for dinner. What do you want?"

"I want the gun they promised."

"After dinner. So what do you feel like having?"

"I don't know. What have they got?"

"Whatever you like. Chinese, Italian, French..."

"What about Macedonian?" Mike asked. "Is there like, Macedonian food in Macedonia? I'd like to try the local cuisine. "

"Adventurous, are we? I like that. I know a place. Best turli tava in Skopje."

"What's turli tava?"

"Macedonian beef stew," she explained. "We'll meet Ivanovich later, and hear what he has to say. Then we'll plan from there. Jointly."

"We better. And we'll get my gun. In fact, I'd like to have that right now, if you don't mind."

" I do mind. I'm hungry. Dinner first, gun later. The waiters in this place can be a pain, but I'm pretty sure we won't have to shoot our way out."

VI

The first order of business was a car. That had been the easy part. Eliza's company, ZR Security Ops, had people in Europe, and she had simply arranged for two of them to meet her at the airport with a car. She wasn't traveling under an alias. Her business interests gave her reason enough to travel, and she was allowed a vacation now and then. So a couple of ZR men were waiting at the airport with a black Audi S5. It was a bit high profile, but she was traveling under her own name, so she decided that inconspicious would actually look a bit conspicuous. Plus, she might just need something high performance.

And besides, she did like to travel in style.

Weapons and gear were another matter. Her company could have fitted her out with almost any weapons she wanted, but it would leave a trace. She didn't want anyone she normally dealt with to know her business here, or indeed that she was here on business at all. So she had decided to go outside her ususal supply chain and call Stan The Man.

Stanislaus Loncar was Serbian. The post Communist collapse of the Albanian government in 1996 had brought misery and deprivation to many thousands, but Stanislaus Loncar was entrepreneurial. Where most had seen a disaster, he'd seen opportunity. When the Albanian government lost control of its own armories because it could no longer pay its troops and the soldiers were reduced to selling their weapons, Stanislaus Loncar had backed up a convoy of trucks and made off with everything from AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles to machine guns, antitank missiles, mortars, and grenades. It was the start of a hugely successful career as an arms trafficker.

Stanislaus Loncar had made a fortune providing weapons to anyone who would pay. His AKs had been used by Balkan militias to massacre entire villages, by poachers in Africa to slaughter endangered herds of elephants and rhinos for their ivory, by rebels in the Middle East as well as the governments they were fighting against, and by the spooks of many nations for a wide range of deniable covert operations. Stanislaus Loncar had been in business for almost two decades. Somewhere along the way he'd become known as Stan Loncar, and eventually as Stan The Man.

Stan had set the meeting place at a garage on the outskirts of Skopje. Normally she wouldn't have gone to an isolated location like this to buy contraband, especially not alone. But she'd done business with Stan before, and usually on a much larger scale. Stan had equipped her teams often enough, and if anything happened to her, he'd be out a valuable repeat customer. And today's buy was a very small one indeed, at least on Stan's scale. He was doing this in part, she suspected, to keep her sweet for future business. So she wasn't too worried about being ripped off or murdered. Even so, it made her nervous to be buying weapons for cash. She normally paid Stan by letter of credit, but she wasn't telling the whole truth about this trip even to the Organization, so there couldn't be a paper trail.

She pulled into the parking lot of the garage, a long, low stone building with four bays in the front. It was nearly 6:00pm, and the place was closed. A young man with a thick shock of tousled blonde hair and a mustache in dirty gray coveralls with the sleeves rolled up could be seen standing by the cash register through the front window. From the muscles in his arms, he might not need a jack to lift up a car. A sign hung in the window She didn't speak or read Macedonian, but had no doubt that the red Cyrillic looking letters on the sign spelled CLOSED.

She knocked on the door. "We are closed for the day," the young man said, in heavily accented English.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "My battery won't hold a charge, and once I cut the engine off, I can't restart it."

The young man opened the door. "You have a bad alternator?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I will open the bay," he said. "Pull your car inside."

The man disappeared through a door leading to the bays, and the rollup door nearest the office began to open. Inside, she could see Stan and two other men, including the one in the dirty coveralls.

She got back in her Audi, pulled into the bay, and killed the engine. As she got out of the car, the door began to close behind her.

Stan The Man was standing at the back of the bay flanked by a couple of hoods. Stan was dressed in a bespoke olive gabardine suit. The hoods wore loose fitting nylon jackets that could conceal an arsenal and would be cheap to replace if they got blood all over them. Stan had a round face with blonde hair and widow's peaks in a military buzz cut that made him look like an army officer, though he'd never served a day in uniform. Stan the Man didn't go to war, he just made a killing off of it.

She saw three suitcases sitting on a workbench next to him. She hoped those cases held what she'd come here to buy. She began looking around the bay carefully as if searching for something.

"What on Earth are you looking for?" Stan asked.

"Dead bodies," she replied with a grin. " I don't remember anything about you owning a garage, and I was just wondering what might have happened to the owners."

Stan laughed out loud. "You are always kidding around. The guy owes me a favor. I have the use of his shop."

. "Looks like you came through," she said, nodding at the suitcases.

"I always do," he said. "Especially for you. But I was amazed when you said you would be paying cash. That's not like you."

"I'm doing a job for an important client."

"It must be important indeed if you are doing the job personally." He indicated the young man in coveralls. "I'd like you to meet my son Dragon"

"I didn't even know you had a son"

"I am showing him the business. Dragon, this is Eliza. An important customer Who usually does not walk around with this kind of cash. It's a good thing I am so trustworthy, but then that is doubtless why you came to me."

"You're my go to guy, Stan." She said it with a smile, while keenly aware that she was hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed if Stan did actually decide to rip her off. "I've got some people coming in tomorrow. You want to meet them here?"

"Yes. I was told two men?"

"Two men and a woman, but you're just fitting out the men. It'll be a cash job, like this one."

"Of course. Check over the merch. Make sure it's right."

She began by opening the largest suitcase. Inside was a subcompact 9mm pistol, a CZ RAMI, along with a three magazines, and a small tuckable leather holster. Next to it was a Skorpion machine pistol with a folding stock, six twenty round magazines and a silencer. There was also a bulky looking shoulder holster for it with a large pouch for extra mags on the opposite side. It was too big to really conceal, but it would allow her to carry the gun and move hands free if she had to. The second case held several boxes of ammunition for the two guns. The third held her electronics. The smart phone she carried had been provided by the Organization. It was encrypted and secure, but she'd had Stan supply her with four burners just in case. There was also a set of six tiny tracker bugs and what looked like a GPS device that could be stuck to the windshield of a car with a suction cup and displayed out the position of the trackers. **

She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket. She was dressed like an executive, with a suit jacket and slacks, but with trainers on her feet in case she had to move. She pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to Stan. She had another envelope in her other pocket with extra cash just in case. If she'd somehow made a counting error, she could make it good right away. Stan riffed quickly through the thick sheaf of American hundred dollar bills.

"Put the bags in her car," he said to one of the hoods.

"Thanks Stan," she replied, as she took out her fob to open the trunk. ""Your customer service is unbeatable. You're going to be in town a couple of days just in case?"

"Dragon will be here. That's his number I sent you before you left the States. He's good, don't worry. If you need anything, he'll take care of you. But I must say, I'm surprised that you're operating like this. You have a lot of guys who work for you. Why are you calling on Stan for backup?"

" I didn't have a lot of guys in the neighborhood. I wanted someone local and reliable. "

"Well, whatever this is about, I wish you success."

"Thanks. Nice meeting you, Dragon." She got back in her car, and the rollup door began to open. She gunned the motor, and sped off, wondering what Stan had told Dragon about her. Stan had hit on her a few times, and she'd explained that she simply couldn't get involved with someone she did business with, which was a way to turn him down gently. She'd probably have to go through the same spiel if she had to call Dragon for anything. Actually, she thought with a smile, Dragon was hot, but even so. She had her reputation to think about.

VII

Her fourth floor hotel room had a beautiful view of the Vardar river, but she had little enough time to enjoy it. She hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door so that she would not be interrupted. She had to go through her equipment and weapons, and she faced the drudgery of loading her magazines. She also wanted to look over the report that the bearded man had sent her about the plan to capture Mark Gray.

According to the report he'd sent, the girl who'd spotted Mark Gray was named Marta Pandev. She was twenty-four years old, and had worked for Dusko Ivanovich part time for the past year while trying unsuccessfully to make it as an actress. Eliza weighed her options. She faced a number of serious obstacles. First, she didn't speak the language. She spoke Arabic, German, and Russian, but not a word of Macedonian. Second, Dusko Ivanovich was apparently hoping to collect the reward that the US Government had offered for Mark Gray. That pretty much ruled out simply buying Gray's address from him. She wasn't poor, but she couldn't win a bidding war with the CIA.

So she'd likely do better starting with the girl. Ivanovich was in it strictly for the money, at least according to the Agency. And apparently, they thought the girl was too. But maybe it was more complicated than that. In any case, the best thing to do was to start with the girl. If she had feelings for Mark Gray, maybe she could play on that. If the girl was in regular contact with Gray, then at least she'd know where he was. And if push came to shove, and she had to tie someone to a chair and start cutting off body parts to get answers, then it was would be physically a lot easier to start with the girl.

So she was starting with the girl.

VIII

"That was a good," Mike said. "Although that beef stew was actually lamb."

"Yeah, well, turli tava can be pork, lamb, or beef. It's really best with lamb I think."

It was dark, and Amanda was driving them slowly down an ill lit narrow road lined with small apartment buildings and smaller shops. He noticed that she kept checking her rear view mirror.

"So we're going to get my gun now," he said.

"We are. In fact we're almost there. I'm staying in a safe house that the Company rents. On Dusko Popov Street of all places."

"Who's that?" Mike asked.

"The guy that James Bond was actually based on. For real. He was a double agent in World War II. He worked for the British and the Germans, but he really worked for the British and fed false intel to the Germans. Later they sent him on a mission to America. He reported to the FBI that the Japanese were scoping out the defenses of Pearl Harbor. But J Edgar Hoover wouldn't listen, and threatened to throw him in jail because he'd picked up a model in New York City and taken her to a beach in Georgia. Old J Edgar didn't approve, and threatened him with prison for violating the Mann Act.*** Anyway, they named a street after him. We'll get you a gun and then go meet Ivanovich."

She turned onto a street that was better lit than the one she'd just left. This was clearly a residential neighborhood, and apparently whoever lived here was important enough to rate streetlights that worked.

She pulled over to the side of the road in front of a small frame house with a napkin sized yard around it. There didn't seem to be a driveway. She checked around them carefully before getting out. She'd taken a complicated series of detours on the way here, and Mike had recognized a surveillance detection route.

Inside was a tiny living room with a TV on the wall in front of a ratty couch. A short hallway led towards what looked like a small kitchen, and he could see into a bedroom as well of to the side. Two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, and a living room. He'd seen larger apartments. She pulled out her phone and called up what looked like a photograph on the screen.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Photo Trap. **** I'm checking to see if anything's been moved."

"You're careful."

"I have to be." She looked around the room, comparing it to the pictures on her phone. Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed, she out the phone away and went to the bedroom, motioning for Mike to follow. She slid back the closet door, and pulled back a section of carpet on the floor to reveal a safe. She spun the combination and opened the door. She reached inside, producing a Glock 19, two magazines, a plastic mag holder that would snap onto his belt, and a leather inside the waistband holster with a clip to secure it. . "Here," she said.

"Do I need to sign for this?"

"No," she said, smiling. "We're not the FBI. They let me requisition weapons, vehicles, equipment..."

"Requisition?"

"As in they let me have whatever I need, and after, someone signs off on it."

He locked the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty. "Must be nice."

"It is, and they don't let just anybody do that. How long have you been after Gray?"

"I left the States back in March. So it's almost six months." He checked the magazines. They were already fully loaded. He clipped the holster to his belt.

"What have you been doing to find him? If you don't mind my asking."

He inserted a magazine into the Glock and chambered a round. "Mostly I've been following the money. Lily Gray had a lot of it. If I can turn off his money, then I can run Mark to ground. That's what I was doing when I got the call about Ivanovich. I was following up a lead about a bank account." He slipped the Glock into the holster, and pulled his denim shirt down over it.

"Bank account?"

"Yeah. Lily had a charity that she set up. It was a sham. Supposedly it was for orphans from war torn African countries. But she used fake charities to move money around, and Mark was getting money through those after he went on the run. . Turns out that a check got written on an account used by this charity that ended up in a numbered Swiss account. The Swiss don't like cooperating with law enforcement where banking privacy is involved, but they'll do it, especially with a serial killer like Mark Gray. So we found out that the money went from Switzerland to a bank in Macedonia. I was trying to trace it when I got the call about Gray having been spotted in Skopje. I was hoping that following those accounts would lead me to Mark. I was working with the FBI office in Paris. I'm going to contact the embassy here tomorrow and..."

"Don't," she interrupted. "Stay away from the embassy."

"Why?"

"Do you know why we're here?" she asked.

"To get Mark Gray," he replied, irritably.

"No. We're here because someone in DC got a visit from the Good Idea Fairy. It's a nonextradition country, but Mark Gray is a serial killer, and we could have asked the locals to hand him over. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but the fact is that Washington decided not to ask. They're sending in the door kickers."

"You need to understand something," she continued. "You're not a cop over here. That FBI badge they gave you is worthless here. As far as these people are concerned, we're not arresting Mark Gray, we're kidnaping him. And if we get caught at it, we'll both be in prison cells hoping that Uncle Sam sends someone to negotiate for our release, and hoping that the Macedonians will listen if they do. We're in their country, and we're breaking their laws."

"Do you have any idea how many people Mark has killed?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, I do. I was in the States when Joe Carroll got resurrected. I saw you on TV, remember? I know a lot of people died, and I know your father was one of them. It doesn't matter. Imagine how you'd feel if someone from, say, Russia or China showed up in Manhattan and snatched a guy off the street that they said was a murderer. And maybe he was, but that's not the point. Not to you. The point is you're the guy in New York enforcing the law, and these Russian or Chinese guys are breaking it. So if you catch 'em, what are you gonna do? You're gonna throw 'em in jail.. So you need to stay away from the embassy. It's watched, and phone calls in and out are monitored."

"By who?"

"Everyone. You don't want to be seen going there, and you don't want to be calling there either. We need to stay under the radar. Remember, we're all criminals here. Washington decides that instead of asking for Gray's extradition we're going in after him, so we're going in, but we better not get caught at it. The rest of the world gets tired of Americans acting like cowboys, and if we get caught, they'll make examples of both of us."

"I need to trace that account."

"Why?" she asked. "If we get Gray, that account won't matter."

"We might not get him, and even if we do, we still need to seize the money."

"We," she said, emphasizing the word, "need to not get caught. This might be your case, your mission, your quest for revenge, but it's my one and only life. And yours too. I hope you can remember that."

"It's not about revenge."

"Whatever. Well, let's go meet Ivanovich."

IX.

According to the Agency file, Marta Pandev lived in a flat on the Ulica Bogdan Kabul. The information had supposedly come from Ivanovich himself. His Agency contacts had demanded details about the girl he claimed had spotted Mark Gray before any discussion about money could take place. She supposedly drove a Ford Focus, a common enough car in this part of Europe. Eliza couldn't keep eyes on Marta Pandev all by her herself. There was no mention of a regular job or a phone number. The best way to keep tabs on Marta Pandev's movements would be to plant a tracker on her car. The problem would be to catch her at home, and get close enough to plant the bug without drawing attention.

She had packed some energy bars before she'd left New York, She'd need them now, since it wouldn't be possible to stop for a regular meal. She's drive by Marta's apartment and get the lay of the land, then she'd have to come back on foot and in disguise. And she'd have to take some extra clothes in case she had to change her appearance on short notice.

She wore jeans, trainers, a gray T shirt, and a soft leather motorcycle jacket. She packed a light pink hoodie into a zippered nylon bag. She could swap the dark motorcycle jacket for the hoodie, and it would change her appearance quite a bit. She also included a plain cadet cap the color of washed denim and a pair of ballet flats and stuck them in the bag as well, along with a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses wouldn't be much use at night, but she might just be out all night.

She stuffed the CZ into its holster, which was little more than a leather sheath that covered the trigger. Her T shirt was a size too big to help conceal a weapon. She stuck the pistol in its holster into the front waistband of her jeans , and pulled the T shirt down over it. She stuck a spare magazine in her jacket pocket. The Skorpion would be more of a problem. Although she had a shoulder rig for it, she would need winter clothing to really conceal it well, and the warm September night ruled that out. But her Audi was a ZR company car, and that meant that certain accommodations had been made. The passenger side airbag had been removed, creating a compartment behind the glove box where she could stash the weapon along with a couple of spare mags, although she'd have to store it with the silencer unscrewed.

Getting everything into the car took a couple of trips, since a lot of it had to be carried down to the car from her hotel room in bags to hide the contents. Once she was done, she stopped and ate an energy bar which she washed down with some bottled water. Dinner would have to wait. She sealed up the water bottle, started the Audi, and headed out into the night.

X

Eliza drove slowly down Ulica Bogdan Kabul looking for some sign of the Ford Focus the Tier 3 report had led her expect. There was no sign of it. Marta might not be home, but she could easily have missed it. She'd park a few blocks away and walk the area.

XI

This particular neighborhood was ill lit, even by Skopje standards. Eliza was careful to walk as close as possible to the street to make herself a hard target if someone stepped out of one of the narrow alleys she passed and tried to grab her. She found herself walking slightly hunched over, with her left arm just slightly forward. If she had to defend herself she could instantly sweep her T shirt out of the way and draw her CZ. She was glad it was still early in the evening and there were people moving about. At least she wasn't isolated.

There was a small parking lot tucked in behind the building where Marta lived. She hadn't been able to see it very well from the street when she'd been driving. She wanted to walk through it and see if Marta's car was there. She had a tracker bug in her jacket pocket. If the car was there...

She turned into the parking lot, which consisted of a shirt driveway that led off the street and spilt into a T long enough to park a dozen or so cars. A lot of tenants, if they had cars, would liekly have to park on the street.

She spotted a gunmetal blue Focus. She had no idea of the license number, but she'd take a chance that this was the one she was looking for. She turned left at the T. There were three other cars parked back here. She walked close to the parked cars. She looked around quickly. No one was close, or paying attention to her, and back here she couldn't be seen easily from the street. She'd just have to hope that no one inside happened to be looking out a window.

As she passed the Focus, she stopped, knelt down, and fumbled with her shoelace as if tying it. Then she quickly pulled the tracker bug out of her pocket. Housed in a waterproof magnetic case, the bug was small, not much larger than a cigarette lighter. She reached up and attached it inside the wheel well. It was fitted with an accelerometer, and would activate only when the car was in motion to conserve its battery life.

She stood and resumed walking. Once she was out of sight of the apartment building, she would circle back to her car.

XII

"Where is this place?" Mike asked.

"It's a mall, actually" she replied. "We'll meet them, then drive some place where we can have some privacy." Amanda was driving them towards the center of Skopje. Ahead was a bridge over the Vardar River. "If we get stopped, then you and I met at the museum. We decided to go out for dinner. I'm in IT. I work for a tech company called Mizar Automation. I set up computer systems. I live in New York City, I'm originally from Ohio. Single, no kids."

"All part of your cover, I guess."

"I can tell you where Amanda Kirkland was born, where she went to school, and what her astrological sign is. I can tell you her social Security number and who she took to the prom."

"So how did you get into this?" he asked.

"You mean the Agency? Same way anybody ever gets a job. I put in an application."

"Just like that?"

"Not just like that, no." She paused, as it deciding whether to continue. "I was in the Army. I spent some time Over There. I picked up some language skills, and I spent some time outside the wire. I was on a female engagement team. The locals didn't like American men talking to their women, so I went out on patrols with the combat troops. I could meet the local women. Talk to them. They were comfortable talking to me, and telling me things. I could gather intel. I was going out with a Special Forces team on operations. One of the guys on the team was planning to join the Agency when he got out of the Army. I kind of got the idea from him."

"So did he join the CIA when he went home?"

"He went home in a body bag."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." She fell silent for a moment. "My name's Erin," she said. "Erin McAuley."

It took a moment for him to get over the surprise. He looked at her for a moment, and then smiled. "Nice to meet you, Erin, " he said.

"Likewise. Sorry if I was kind of hard on you."

"It's OK," he said. "You seem to be driving in a circle."

"Well, when you make a left turn, it's easier to see who's behind you. I have to make sure we're not being followed."

They drove across the bridge, the city lights reflecting a rainbow of colors off the dark water below. "So you packed up and left everything behind to look for the man who killed your father. It must have been hard."

"I had to find him."

"You didn't have any family or anyone to leave behind?"

He noted the words "or anyone". "At the time," he said, "There didn't seem to be anything else to live for." That, he realized, didn't answer her unspoken question. "I left someone behind. But we haven't been in touch since."

The bridge was now behind them, and the road ahead widened to four lanes. She eased over to the right. "But you hope she's waiting when you go home."

"She won't be." He believed it, he realized. But he still hoped he was wrong

XIII

The City Mall Of Skopje was built with a parking deck attached to one end, making for a sheltered rear entrance. Erin pulled into the deck, and eased up slowly towards the rear entrance of the building. "There he is," she said, pointing at a man standing near the entrance.

"He's alone," Mike said.

"Yeah. Get in the back, and let him get in next to you. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want him behind both of us." She slowed to a stop.

Mike quickly got in on the rear passenger side. Erin eased forward, rolling her window down as she did so. She slowed to a stop in front of Dusko. Mike had read that he was supposed to be forty, but he looked ten years younger. He was wearing a suit jacket, light blue shirt, light gray cargo pants, and casual lace up shoes that almost looked like low top work boots. Extreme business casual for the well dressed spook, Mike decided.

"I thought you were bringing a date," Erin said.

"She stood me up," Dusko replied.

Erin glanced back wordlessly at Mike. He nodded slightly.

"I hate when that happens," she said to Dusko. "Get in back"

Dusko slid in next to Mike, and Erin turned towards the parking deck exit. "I know a place where can talk," she said. "It's only a few minutes away."

XIV

They were in the parking lot of some ugly gray blocky apartment buildings. "Where is she?" Mike demanded.

"You are Mike Weston," Dusko replied.

So maybe I am famous after all, Mike thought. "Yeah, that's me. Where's Marta Pandev?"

"I don't know. She was supposed to meet me earlier. She didn't call, she didn't show. I've tried calling, and all I got was her voice mail."

"You think Mark Gray knows about her?" Mike asked. " Maybe we should go check on her."

"No," Dusko said. "We can't do that."

"She could be in trouble," Mike said.

"Mike," Erin said softly, "you aren't a cop here. If something's happened to her, the last thing you want to do is be found at a crime scene."

"When did you see her last?" Mike asked.

"Yesterday," Dusko replied. "We met, and she told me about her evening with Mark Gray."

"Where is Mark?" he asked.

"You have to pay for that information," Dusko replied. "Your government has advertised a reward."

"Which you won't ever collect unless we get an address," Mike pointed out.

"Just a moment," Erin said. She reached into the left cargo pocket of her pants, and pulled out a fat envelope. She opened it, and showed Dusko the contents. Inside was a thick stack of hundred dollar bills. "Ten thousand front money," she said. "But I want to see some food on my plate right now."

 _Jesus_ , Mike thought. _They let her walk around with that kind of cash_ _and hand out money and weapons like candy._

Dusko looked carefully at the offered envelope. "OK," he said. "Marta has been seeing Mark Gray for a while. She's fascinated by him. But he is violent, Unpredictable. He may have called her, and demanded that she go with him. If so, she would have had little choice but to go."

"Go where?" Mike

"Out. Maybe to kill."

"You mean she's a follower?" Mike asked.

"She's been seeing Mark Gray," Dusko said. "What do you think he does for fun? Miniature golf?"

"Where does he stay?" Mike demanded. "If she's working for you, and she's been seeing him, then you know his address."

"And when you have it, you won't need me, and you will pay me nothing."

"Dusko," Erin said. "You show up alone and empty handed. I gotta have something. I can't pay you today for a hamburger on Tuesday."

Dusko eyed the envelope like a hungry dog looking at a steak. "Mark Gray lives in a villa on the Ulica Nicolae Volocek. Near Saraj. There's a house. Number 1106. It's set back from the road. He likes his privacy. He rented it under the name Kevin Pender. It's a Canadian passport, probably forged."

"And Marta Pandev, Mike asked. "Does she stay with him all the time?"

"No. She lives at the address I gave. Gray calls her sometimes. As I said, he is reclusive. And erratic. And volatile. He may be killing someone right now. Perhaps even Marta."

Mike looked uneasily at Erin. He wondered who was more on edge, Dusko at the prospect of the cash or himself at the prospect of getting his hands on Mark. Erin sat there with a perfect poker face. She might have been holding trash. She might have been holding a full house. But she was definitely holding ten thousand dollars. She studied Dusko like a professional card player sizing up a fish. "OK," she said at last, and handed him the envelope. "I want to know if Marta Pandev turns up."

"I'll let you know," he said. "How should I contact you?"

"Leave a charcoal mark on the light pole at the corner of Kennedy and Dizhonska. We'll meet back here that evening."

"OK," Dusko said. "You still want to meet her?"

"If you think she can be trusted," Erin replied. "For now, I need to be somewhere else. You try to contact her. I'd offer to drop you off at the mall, but I'm pretty sure you can afford cab fare."

XV

"Where are you staying?" Erin asked.

They had left Dusko in the parking lot to make his own way. Mike was sitting beside Erin, who was driving them down a broad six lane road through the center of town. "The Vila Bandera," Mike replied.

"I know it. Good choice. I'll meet you there tomorrow. They rent bicycles there. Tomorrow, I want you rent us a couple of bikes. This place he gave us is just outside of town. It's scenic. We can use the bikes to go check it out, and its low profile. We can be a nice couple out for a ride in the country."

"Do you think he was lying to us?"

"If they're selling information they're always lying about something. But I don't think he was lying about Marta Pandev."

"She could be a follower, then."

"Or she could be helping Gray kill in order to set him up to collect the reward. Or she could be dead."

"If she's a follower, she'll sell us out. She may have done it already."

"From what you've told me, Mark Gray is stone cold insane. If she's informing on him, then she's got to stick close to him, and she won't be able to keep a set schedule. So don't read too much into it. I'll drop by your hotel early. We'll grab some breakfast and go for a ride in the country."

"That street you mentioned," Mike said. "Kennedy. As in President John Kennedy?"

"Yeah. Skopje has a street named for John Kennedy. And Ho Chi Minh. Go figure."

XVI

Marta Pandev was on the move. Eliza had taken up a position in a coffee shop a few blocks from her apartment, and had kept the small tracker unit with her. She'd ordered coffee and a scone and settled down to see if Marta went out for the evening.

She picked a seat in the corner. The tracker unit sat by her elbow. It could pass for a small e reader. The screen would remain dark until it got a signal, and it would get no signal until that car moved. She scrolled idly through the email on her phone. Lots of junk. Changes were coming to her internet bill, since her provider had been bought out by a larger company. Yeah, there'd be changes all right - higher prices and crappier service, no doubt. The deposed dictator of some African hellhole needed to use her checking account to get his billions out of the country and would gladly cut her in for two percent as soon as he had her account number. She turned to the news. Some nattering about the recent cease fire in Ukraine, and more charges and countercharges about the attack in Benghazi.

She was finished with her scone, halfway through her coffee, and bored with the news when the tracker unit came to life. The screen illuminated, showing a street map. The position of Marta Pandev's car was marked in the center of the screen with a red dot. Two numbers across the top gave the coordinates, and at the bottom were words Driving S on Ulica Bogdan Kabul 32kph.

She tossed her coffee cup and empty paper plate in the trash, and headed for her Audi.

XVII

Marta was picking up speed. Damn. Eliza didn't want to get pulled, but the girl was in a hurry. Maybe she'd been planning to binge watch something and had run out of popcorn. Or maybe she was meeting someone.

The red dot came to a stop. Eliza slowed, deciding to make a slow drive past whatever it was. Marta's destination proved to be a nightclub called Club Plevna. Eliza looked at herself, wishing she'd put a dress in her bag. Jeans and a motorcycle jacket weren't what she normally wore for clubbing. There was also the question of the CZ. If there was a metal detector at the door...

She decided to take the CZ with her, and if it tripped a metal detector, she'd tell them that she had an artificial hip joint from an accident. She parked, and made her way to the door. She gave the bouncer a big smile, and he let her pass without wanding her. Maybe they didn't even do that here.

Club Plevna was dark, loud, and crowded. The air conditioning was turned down to meat locker, and they were playing something with a synthpop beat. The bar was crowded and the tables were mostly taken. She looked around, but did not see Marta in the immediate vicinity.

She decided to go looking.

XVIII

The Hotel Vila Bandera was a cube shaped brick building painted light brown. It was small, only six rooms, and located about twenty minutes from the center of town. Mike wasn't sure why Erin had liked it, the beds were a bit hard, but the wifi worked, and the room had it's own kettle if he wanted to make his own hot drinks. The owners, a middle aged couple, had seemed friendly enough. The place was two storied, and Mike's room, on the second floor in back, was reached by a short concrete staircase that led up from the corner of the building to an outside door. In America, they would have called this place a motel.

He sat on the bed, looking at the sterile walls with one small art deco looking print on them, wondering how many crap hotels and apartments he'd stayed in these past six months. This wasn't the worst by any means. But even five star accommodations wouldn't change anything much for him. Even in the Presidential Suite of a luxury hotel, he'd still be alone.

This was the worst part of the day. The time between when he returned to his room, wherever that was, and the time he drifted off to sleep. The quiet time at the end of the day, when there was nothing to drown out his thoughts.

" _You didn't have any family or anyone to leave behind?"_ No family, no. Mark had done for the last of his family.

But he'd had someone to leave behind. And he'd left her, even after she begged him to stay.

" _But you hope she's waiting when you go home"_

And what if she wasn't? He didn't really believe she would be. He hoped. But what if she wasn't there? What was there to go home to, anyway? Was home even there anymore? He thought about calling her, but what would he say? _I'm sorry, I love you, but I can't come home until I find Mark._ If she asked him to come back, he'd have to refuse, and that would only make things worse. And if she didn't ask him to come home, it would mean it was too late.

He'd thought of buying a bottle whiskey in Brussels. Something to help him sleep. He'd decided against it. Depending on alcohol to get to sleep was the first step to being dependent on alcohol. He wouldn't go there, he'd seen what it had done to Ryan. But he wished he could sleep.

He thought about the bank account. Mark Gray was moving money to Macedonia, so Mark was here somewhere. If he could trace that account...but Erin didn't want him going near the embassy. He could call Keith Hoffman. He was the FBI liaison in Paris, but that might get back to Erin, and while he trusted her, he'd try to put off the inevitable clash with her as long as possible. Because they were working at cross purposes. Erin, with her bundles of cash, unlimited gear, and military backup was here to capture Mark Gray alive.

And Mike was here to kill him.

He thought about the bank account again. And then he made his decision. If he couldn't work through the embassy or the FBI liaison... he reached for his phone. There was a six hour time difference between Skopje and New York. He scrolled down the list of contacts on his phone, and selected one...

"Hey Ryan. Remember me?"

XIX

She found Marta coming from the direction of the ladies room. She was alone, wearing a gray plaid cropped shirt and skinny black jeans with brothel creepers. She wasn't far away, and Eliza pretended interest in her phone for a moment. Marta was looking her way and she didn't want to be seen staring.

She gave Marta a few seconds to turn away, and started to put her phone back in the inside pocket of her jacket. As she did so, she heard a man's voice. "Did he call?"

She'd been so focused on watching Marta and not being made that she hadn't noticed the man with the short dark hair and stubbly beard dressed in a knit shirt with blue horizontal stripes and jeans. He was standing beside her on her right. "Because if he didn't, I'll be happy to get you a drink."

"Excuse me," she said. "I need to..."

"He didn't call, did he? We'll get a drink." Knit shirt reached for her hand, got her by her right wrist, and began pulling her towards the bar.

In an instant, she rotated her hand so that her thumb was towards the opening between his thumb and forefinger and snapped he hand towards her chest, breaking his hold. The move startled him. "I said excuse me," she snarled. She turned way from him to walk away, and found herself face to face with Marta Pandev. She stopped for a moment, while knit shirt said something in what sounded like German that probably wasn't too complimentary.

"She's with me," Marta said to knit shirt.

"Come on," she said to Eliza, and nodded her head towards the back wall. She walked towards the back and Eliza followed.

"I'm Marta."

"Eliza."

"You're American aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I have an American friend. Someone I'd like you meet."

"Sure," Eliza said, glancing back to make sure that knit shirt wasn't following.

Marta stopped in front of a table where a man was sitting alone. "Eliza," she said, "this is Luke."

Eliza looked at the man, and realized that she'd found Mark Gray.

Musical Interlude - The Long Way Home by The Birthday Massacre

======== Chapter Notes ========

* When I was researching this fic, I decided to learn a little bit about FBI training at Quantico. One thing I learned was that during the time frame of S2, when Max Hardy was first introduced as a character, the FBI, in real life, was under a hiring freeze, because President Obama and the Republican Congress were at loggerheads over the budget. Normally the FBI Academy at Quantico graduates a new class of Special Agents once a year, but there was no graduating class in 2013. That being the case, Max Hardy could have put in her application to join the FBI well before the start of season 2. In fact, it's more realistic to assume that she did.

We were never told how long Mike and Max were together before Mike left to go overseas. In trying to come up with a chronology , I learned that when the hiring freeze finally ended, a new class of New Agent Trainees, or NATs as the FBI calls them, reported to Quantico in April of 2014, and graduated in September, with nearly fifty agents in the graduating class. If we work that into the timeline for The Following, it would mean that Mike left to go chasing Mark Gray not later than March. (It would also indicate a remarkably quick recovery from his first stab wound, but that is neither here nor there.) Max, distraught, lonely, and badly needing a change of scenery, left New York City for Quantico a few weeks later. This is more realistic than saying that she went through the lengthy application and selection process for the FBI in the space of the few short weeks between Mike's departure and the start of the 2014 NAT course.

** The CZ 2075 RAMI is a subcompact version of the CZ 75, a 9mm pistol made in Czechoslovakia that was used by many Soviet Bloc troops during the Cold War and exported all over the world. But where the CZ 75 is a full size military pistol, the RAMI is a lot smaller, and made partly of aluminum to make it light weight. It's meant for issue to plainclothes or undercover types. The RAMI holds ten rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber.

The Skorpion is also made in Czechoslovakia. It's a fully automatic pistol/submachine gun that was widely issued to Soviet Bloc paratroopers, special forces, and intelligence agents. It's also been used a lot by terrorists who need a compact, nasty little bullet hose. It's still standard issue for North Korean commandos. It's sometimes seen in movies and video games as well. The Skorpion is usually designed to take a 7.65mm cartridge, and on full auto can fire 850 rounds per minute.

Pictures and videos of any weapon mentioned in this fic can be seen online. Search engine or YouTube.

***Yes, this is all true. The Mann Act was passed to prevent women from being forced into prostitution, but it could be used to throw someone in Federal prison for a year and a day for taking a woman across state lines for "immoral purposes", i.e. having sex without being married. As for Dusko Popov, I once read his memoirs and have wondered ever since why Hollywood never made a movie about him. There really is a street in Skopje named after Dusko Popov, although most of the street names I cite are fictitious.

**** An app that compares the positions of items in two photos and tells you what's been changed. There's a good deal of real life spy tech that you can access and use yourself.

26


	3. Sometimes A Snark Is A Boojum

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Chapter 3 - Sometimes A Snark Is A Boojum

 _Mark Gray's Safe House - Three Hours Ago_

The trouble started because of three things. First, Mark Gray was hungry, and decided to cook himself a meal. Second, Mark had made an effort to learn the languages of the countries in which he traveled. And third, the dude in the Guy Fawkes T shirt was an asshole.

The safe house felt a bit crowded because Mark had to share it with a couple of Zamir's men. Zamir himself wasn't there, of course, he was too important to be doing the scut work. He'd left two guys to keep an eye on things. Mark wasn't sure how many guys Zamir had all told, but if these two were any indication, he was recruiting from the shallow end of the gene pool. One of them was clean shaven, with short brown hair and a broad, sullen face. It was a face that held some combination of anger and permanent disappointment. He was, when it started, sitting on the living room couch playing a game on his smart phone. He was wearing a black knit shirt with narrow white horizontal stripes and jeans. His name was Gusti .

The other man, Petar, the one in the Guy Fawkes T shirt, was binge watching what looked like a German cop show. He was in his early twenties with short, spiky black hair, a few days growth of stubble, and tinted, thick rimmed glasses. Mark thought he was trying to look like Carlos The Jackal, but mostly he looked like Moe from the Three Stooges if Moe had been a pimp. And he also popped pills.

Mark was making khichri, a spicy Indian dish made with rice and lentils. He put some olive oil in the bottom of the pot, added the ginger, cloves, bay leaf, and half a cinnamon stick, and began frying them. The smell was wonderful, and it would be even better once he'd added the rice, water, and the rest of the spices. The smell would carry through the whole place. Aromatherapy followed by dinner, once he'd got the rice cooked down and added the lentils. He had a bottle of Riesling that he'd been saving. Zamir had told him earlier that day that Mike Weston was definitely in Skopje, and Mark was in a festive mood. After a minute he added the rice and stirred it, getting it thoroughly coated in the hot spicy oil.

His two minders spoke English, but usually didn't speak to each other except in German. Gusti was probably German, but Petar definitely wasn't. He'd heard Petar speaking on the phone, maybe to a girlfriend. He spoke a Balkan language, Mark was pretty sure. Hungarian or Rumanian or something. They spoke German to keep him from understanding what they were saying, and seemed oblivious to the fact they were showing that they couldn't be trusted. Mark, for his part, gave no sign that he's studied some German while hiding there. He wasn't fluent, of course, but he knew the language well enough to know that Petar was telling Gusti that Mark would make someone a good little wife, and he probably missed having a real man around now that his brother was dead. Petar frequently talked shit after popping pills.

Mark had finished adding the water and dry spices, and was just bringing the mixture to a boil when he heard someone come into the kitchen behind him. He turned. Petar. "He's in here playing with himself," Petar said in German. "He misses having his brother to do it for him."

Mark was debating exactly how many of Petar's bones he was going to break when Petar opened the refrigerator and took out Mark's bottle of Riesling. "Put that back," Mark said, in German. "If you want something, ask. And while you're at it, I think an apology is in order."

Petar froze for a moment, and turned, the wine bottle still in his hand, a look of surprise on his face. "You shouldn't mix alcohol with pills," Mark said patiently. "And you shouldn't talk about my brother. Both will get you dead."

"God damn to your mother," Petar replied, in English.

This was unacceptable, so Mark closed the distance in a heartbeat and sucker punched Petar in the face while Petar was trying to bring the bottle up to use as a weapon Mark leaned into the punch, twisting his body to put more weight behind it. Petar's head slammed back against the freezer door. He might have been willing to apologize at that point, but he was too badly dazed and anyway his voice would have sounded odd with a broken nose. The wine bottle dropped, and Mark's next three punches broke his glasses, the bone around his right eye socket, and his teeth. Mark reached over to the kitchen cabinet, pulled the butcher knife from its wooden block and drove it hard and repeatedly into Petar's midsection until Petar slid to the floor with Mark's knife still in his guts.

By now the rice was boiling over, meaning it was ruined and all Mark's work had been for nothing, so when Gusti came through the kitchen door to see what was happening, he was met with a faceful of boiling water, hot oil, and uncooked rice. He was still screaming in agony when Mark brained him with the pot. With dinner ruined, Mark decided he had no choice but to go out to eat. He left the kitchen smelling of fragrant spices and Petar's voided bowels.

II

 _Marta Pandev's Flat, Two Hours Ago_

The call came while Marta was reading a book on her Kindle. She was sitting on her couch, a half eaten bag of unbuttered popcorn on the lamp table next to her. The book was called Ryan Hardy, G-Man, Vigilante, Executioner by a British writer named Nigel Pyke. She'd read a lot about Joe Carroll and Lily Gray so much of this was familiar to her. She'd had a fascination with serial killers well before she met Mark Gray, so she knew a lot about Ryan Hardy even before she met Mark, and Mark himself had told her quite a bit.

Pyke's book painted Ryan as lawless and murderous, and claimed he had, in effect, run an execution squad. It was pretty sensationalistic, claiming that Ryan had gone far beyond even the methods that the FBI had resorted to in the1930s. He claimed that Ryan Hardy was a serial killer with a badge, and predicted that eventually, Ryan's killings would get out of control and escalate to a point that the Government would be driven to take official notice. The book had been condemned by the FBI and by Hardy himself, but Marta thought that Pyke was probably right.

And that made her wish she could meet Ryan Hardy.

The sound of a ringtone distracted her. She looked at her phone. Dusko. She put down her Kindle and answered it.

"Is Gray with you?" Dusko asked, without preliminary.

"No, you didn't want us seeing each other until.."

"Has he called?" Dusko interrupted.

"No. What's this about?"

"That lunatic has killed one of Zamir's men and injured another. Some sort of argument that got out of hand. He's left the safe house, and they have no idea where he is. Zamir is furious. Call Gray at once."

"Will he hurt Mark?"

"I have no idea, but I'm quite certain he'll hurt you. I have to go meet Weston and this CIA agent, Kirkland . You keep trying to reach Gray. If you find him, call me. Go to him. See if you can talk him down. If we can find him, maybe we can salvage this. Save our lives, and his. Do you understand? If Zamir finds Mark before you do, I don't know what will happen."

"I'll call him."

She disconnected, and began frantically dialing Mark Gray.

His phone rang five times, and she was expecting to get his voice mail when he finally answered. "Marta? Is that you?"

"Yes. Are you OK? What happened? They said..."

"He was being a dick," Mark interrupted. " He had it coming, They both did. He insulted me, my family...They think I'm stupid. They don't know that I understand what they're saying. That I learn some languages. They think they can use me, and laugh at me, and steal from me."

"Dusko called me. He's going to meet Mike Weston alone. He told me that if I don't find you, Zamir will kill me."

"I can protect you."

"No, Mark. You can't. Not from Zamir. I know you're strong, and I love you for saying that, but Zamir is an animal. And he has connections. Please. You have to tell me where you are."

"So you can tell them where I am?"

"No," she said. "So I can be with you. Please. We can talk to Zamir. Make him understand. I know you had reasons for what you did, but Zamir is not the FBI. These people don't have rules."

"Neither does the FBI," Mark replied. "They just pretend to. Rules are for those shows on TV, with the cops and the lawyers and the forensics experts, and they wrap it all up by the end of the episode. In real life the only difference between Zamir and the FBI is that Zamir hasn't got a badge."

"Tell me where you are."

"I went out for a cheeseburger. That guy ruined my dinner. I'm at Club Plevna."

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

III.

Ryan tapped on the open door to Gina's office. He could see that she was on the phone, and she held up a hand and mouthed "wait". A minute or so passed while Gina argued about her budget request with Nick Donovan, explaining that these things are not just made out of air and water, and yes, she knew she was asking for a three percent increase, but how the hell did he expect her to get these people off the streets?

At last, she put the phone down. "I know that look", she said. "And it does not bode well."

Ryan stepped into her office. Look? OK, maybe he was grinning just a little.

"You've been asking for more personnel," He said.

"I have."

"Well, as you know, they finally graduated a new class from Quantico."

"And?"

"And Max graduated top of her class."

"Max? As in your niece?"

"Uh huh."

"I didn't know she'd applied," Gina said absent mindedly, as she read over her notes. "Tell her I said congratulations."

"She asked for an assignment to the West Coast, but she's changed her mind. I called Dan Shelby in Washington, and he says he can get her assigned here. Subject to your approval."

"My approval?"

"Yeah"

Gina looked up at Ryan as if he owed her money and was explaining why he couldn't pay. "So I should approve of having someone here who will go along with absolutely anything you say."

"She's really good," Ryan said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "She's got a lot of computer skills, we need that. "

"We need someone with computer skills, or you need someone willing to cover for you?"

"Yes."

"I'll put her with Sloane."

"There's a lot I could teach her," Ryan said.

"That's why I'm putting her with Sloane. Is she here?"

"She flew in with me from Virginia. She's at home, unpacking."

"So she'll be here tomorrow?"

"Yeah"

"Good. I'll warn Sloane. Where are we on the murder of those two stock analysts?"

"I'm talking to a CI later this evening. Kelso."

"All right, then. Keep me posted."

'"I will," Ryan said. And thanks."

He left, and returned to his desk to check his emails and finish up some paperwork before heading home for the day. He was about to leave when his phone buzzed for attention. He took it out of his pocket. Call from...

"Mike?" he said, as he connected.

"Hey Ryan. Remember me?"

"Vaguely. It has been a while. How are you? Where are you?"

" I'm in Skopje, Macedonia."

"I don't even know where that is."

"You get on the A4 highway from Paris and hang a right at Romania."

"Is that Paris, France, or Paris, Texas?"

"It's the one with the Eiffel Tower," Mike replied.

"OK, so it is in Texas. So let me guess. You're in trouble. You lost your wallet, there's an unpaid bar tab, and you need me to wire you money."

"Actually, believe it or not, I am calling about money."

"OK, so it's not a bar tab. They screw up your expenses? It's happened to me enough times."

"I've got a line on Mark Gray. There's a bank account I need to trace, but I can't contact anyone at the embassy right now. I've been ordered to stay away."

"Why?"

"All I can say right now is that there's a CI who may know where Mark is. I'm working with some people, but I have to keep a low profile, and the embassy is too public. But in the meantime, I still need to trace this account, because I think Mark's using it."

Ryan put Mike on speaker and reached for a pen and a memo pad. "Go," he said.

"Ok, the money was paid from the Grisons Kantonal Bank in Switzerland, account number 505270004 to the Strumica Komercijalni...

"Whoa," Ryan interrupted. "You're gonna have to spell all that out. Slowly."

Ryan carefully copied down the account numbers and the Macedonian words with their bizarre spellings. "Ok, got it," he said, when he was finished.

"It's late here and they'll be closed. It'll have to wait for tomorrow."

"OK," Ryan said. "I'll get on it. Or maybe I'll put Max on it."

"Max?"

"Yeah. She's in the Bureau now. She graduated from Quantico this morning."

"I didn't even know she'd applied," Mike said.

"That's what happens when you don't keep in touch. Apparently she applied back in 2012, and just never got around to telling us."

"Where's she been assigned?"

"Right here in River City. She starts tomorrow."

"I can't believe she never told me. Why didn't she tell me?"

Ryan hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to tell Mike and fearing Max's reaction if he did. "I think she was afraid of being rejected, and she didn't want us to know about it." _Do I tell him the rest?_ "Also, I think she was afraid that maybe you'd be on the next plane overseas if she left for six months."

Silence on the other end of the line.

"You still there?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah. Crap. I'm just trying to take it in. Well, uh, congratulations when you see her, and...I didn't want to hurt her. You know that, right? I just...I had to find Mark."

"I know. I told you because she's gonna be here when you get home. I just thought you should know. When are you coming home, by the way?"

"Well maybe I'm finally close to getting him. Between this CI and this bank account...maybe I'm coming home soon."

"It'll be good to see you again. I'll call you as soon as I have anything. It's good to hear from you. You be careful, OK?"

"I will. It's good to hear your voice again, too. And thanks."

IV

Mike put the phone down on the tiny night stand by the bed. And sat there for a moment, remembering, wanting, and thinking that if he had bought that bottle of whiskey he'd be drinking himself into a stupor.

She hadn't told him. Or Ryan. At first because she'd been afraid of failing, and then because she'd been afraid he'd leave. She'd dreamed of being an FBI agent, and she'd been ready to give it up for him.

And he'd left her anyway.

He stared at the phone for a moment , brought up the screen, and pushed the icon for Contacts. He scrolled through the list, until he came to Max Hardy, and his finger hovered over the green call icon.

 _Just press it and call her. And tell her what? Congratulations, and I'm sorry I left, but I still can't come home. No. And besides, if this really panned out, then maybe he'd have Mark in a couple of days. And then it would be a different conversation. I've done it, and I'm coming home._

 _But what if she won't have me back?_

Ok, so he'd call her in a few days. When it was over. When Mark was dead, and both of them were safe. They wouldn't have to look over their shoulders. He'd told himself that he was doing this in part for her. He'd tell her that. Maybe it would sound more convincing to her than it did to him.

Scratch that. If he couldn't convince himself, then no way would he get Max to buy it.

So just get Mark Gray. And call her as soon as it was over, and then go home. Maybe even to Max, and the life he'd had.

He undressed, turned down the covers, and lay down on the hard mattress. He'd go through the motions of trying to sleep. Soon it would all be over, finally. A few days at the most, and then maybe he could have a life with a future.

V

 _Club Plevna_

 _Now_

She'd been to Club Plevna with Mark before, but they'd never taken a victim there. They'd planned to, but it just hadn't happened. For whatever reason they hadn't managed to isolate a victim. That was the real trick, Mark had explained. Isolate them, get them away from other people, and you could do anything. If you weren't sure you could isolate them, if you weren't sure you had them isolated and beyond help, the safest thing to do was nothing. A big part of it was looking like someone it was safe to be alone with. She could understand, really, what had made him so successful. Mark was intense, but in a romantic, and not a creepy way. You wanted to be with him, even when you knew that you probably shouldn't be. She tried to look calm as she walked in and headed for the tables near the back where she and Mark and hung out earlier. It seemed the likeliest place to start looking.

He was there, at a table alone, an empty lowball glass full of ice by his right hand. From the slightly dazed look on his face, this probably wasn't the first glass he'd emptied. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Never better."

She sat down next to him.

"What happened?"

"That asshole Petar was high and running his mouth. I shut it for him. They always spoke in German because they didn't think I could understand. You said Dusko could be trusted."

"He can be, I do trust him. But those were Zamir's men."

"Well guess who introduced me to Zamir."

"I said that Dusko knew people. He went to meet Weston tonight. He'll be dead soon, and this will be over. Please. Come with me."

" When I'm finished."

"With what?"

"A little something to take the edge off. This," he said, indicating the empty glass, "isn't doing it."

She smiled. "We never really got round to it the last time we were here."

"We never really did." He leaned closer . Between the music and the loud voices, whispering was impossible in here, but with their heads close together, so was eavesdropping. "So, read the room. What are looking for?"

"Someone we can isolate." Good. Keep him engaged. Maybe a kill will calm him down.

"Right. And who's easier?"

"Men. They will trust another man more easily than a woman will."

"And a woman?"

"Will more easily trust a couple."

"So...maybe a woman this time. Pick her out."

Marta smiled, hoping to reassure him. Best to go along, she thought. A kill might make him a bit more...what was the word she was looking for...malleable. No, scratch that. He would never be that. Mellow. It might put him in a better frame of mind, and it would be easier to talk him down from his next outrageous act.

Besides, maybe she'd enjoy taking a woman. Watch him work on her. Perhaps even make the kill herself.

She rose, and began walking around, scanning the crowd, looking for a likely prospect. A group of women wouldn't do, of course, since the victim's friends would remember her. A woman with a man was possible, but only if they weren't really couple, and they separated enough for the predators to to isolate her. A woman alone would be best.

She saw a busty girl with short dark hair wearing shorts and a tight top walking by...no. She was coming back from the ladies room to rejoin muscular man with a dark beard wearing jeans and an untucked tropical print shirt. She was about to walk towards the entrance to see who might be coming in when she spotted a woman who seemed to be looking around the room as I searching for someone. She was wearing a lambskin motorcycle jacketwith a T shirt underneath and jeans. Trainers on her feet. She was, Marta realized, beautiful, about 5' 7", brunette, with olive skin and a slightly exotic look that made her think she might be of Balkan extraction. Magyar, perhaps or Romani. As she watched, a man with a short stubbly beard wearing a knit shirt approached and began speaking to her. Marta couldn't hear what was being said, but whatever it was, the woman didn't seem to appreciate it.

Knit shirt said something and grabbed her by the wrist, apparently trying to pull her towards the bar. The woman suddenly jerked her wrist out of knit shirts grasp. This time, Marta could make out the words "I said excuse me."

Marta, seeing her chance, stepped forward. "She's with me," she said to knit shirt, who retreated, saying something in German. As he did so.

"Come on," Marta said. She began walking towards Mark's table. The woman followed, seemingly glad to be rid of knit shirt.

"I'm Marta."

"Eliza", the woman said in an American accent.

"You're American aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I have an American friend. Someone I'd like you meet."

"Sure," Eliza said, glancing back to make sure that knit shirt wasn't following.

Marta stopped in front of Mark's table. Mark, who had contemplating the empty lowball glass with it's melting ice looked up appreciatively at Eliza.

"Eliza," Marta said, "This is Luke."

VI

The place smelled of dust. It hadn't been entirely unused during her time at Quantico. She'd come home to visit Ryan over the 4th of July. They'd celebrated Ryan's birthday a few days early, and Jenny had come as well. But that was the last time she'd been here, and the last time it had been cleaned. She'd gotten rid of all the perishable food before leaving for Virginia, but that meant that there wasn't a lot of food in the place, so she'd have to eat out tonight, and some grocery shopping was definitely in order.

She was unpacking when she got the text from Ryan. He couldn't go with her that evening, he was meeting a CI. She texted Sierra Cowen, whom she had been partnered with for a time in the NYPD before she made detective. Sierra was working that evening, and she informed Max that Jim Woloszyn was also. She tried Lindy Knapp, but she had a date, and Rachel Guella was out of town.

 _Oh well. I can get a start on my housecleaning, get a suit laid out for tomorrow when I need to make a good first impression, and maybe get some food into the place._

So she'd grocery shopped, done some laundry, vacuumed, gotten take out at a Japanese place, and was feeling proud of herself for having gotten so much done. She settled down in front of the TV set and tried to binge watch Game of Thrones. It helped to have the TV on just to have some noise in the apartment, although somehow her heart wasn't in it. She decided to try turning in a little early, since she wanted to be at her best tomorrow. Ryan said that Gina would want someone with her qualifications, but Max found herself wondering how Gina would feel about someone with her history. She'd followed Ryan down some strictly unauthorized paths when she was in the NYPD, and for all Gina knew, she might again. _I will if he asks me, because if I'm not there he'll go down that very same path alone._

She put on a big T shirt and laid down to try to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. She lay on her side, her thoughts spinning in circles. She'd wanted to join the Bureau and she didn't regret it, but she'd left her support network from the NYPD behind, and she didn't have one for the FBI yet, Ryan excepted. So here she was, alone in a way that she hadn't been in a long time.

 _You go away, and it's not the same when you get back._

That made her think of Mike. He'd gone away. And when he came back? If he came back...If he came back would things be the same? Could they?

Stupid question. He's not coming back until he finds Mark Gray, or Moby Dick, or whatever. But if he walked through that door right now, would you take him back?

 _Yes._

She realized she was cold. Crap. She couldn't sleep cold. It was because she had wadded the covers up and was hugging them close. OK, stop it, this isn't working.

She got up, went to the kitchen, and took down the bottle of Belvedere from the cabinet. She poured herself a double shot. She just needed something to turn down the volume of her thoughts for a little while, just to help her sleep.

Just for tonight.

VII

"I thought we'd help you out," Marta said. "That guy looked like a pest."

"He was," Eliza replied..

"Have a seat," Marta offered. "Join us."

"Thanks," Eliza said. She sat down, noticing as she did so that Mark, who had looked distracted earlier was suddenly much more attentive. He was, she realized, looking at her like a cat who has suddenly noticed the presence of a mouse. The knuckles of his right hand, which was near the empty glass, had been barked up and were bleeding slightly.

"Thanks for the help," Eliza said to Marta. "People can be so rude."

"Don't mention it," Marta replied. "That guy was a tourist. German, I think. They aren't so bad. At least they don't usually run in feral packs, like some. What part of America are you from?"

"New York City," Eliza said.

"I've been there," Mark offered. "It's a wonderful city. Pure entertainment. But after a while, I just had to get away."

"I know just what you mean," Eliza said.

"Are you here on business or pleasure/" Mark asked.

"A little of both, actually. I'm in human resources. I had some meetings, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to see the sights. I'm having an amazing time here. I've met the most interesting people."

The music was starting up. Mark rose, and held out his had to Eliza. "C'mon," he said. "Let's dance."

Eliza looked uncertainly at Marta. "It's OK," Marta said. "Enjoy yourself."

Eliza rose, and took Mark's offered hand. She didn't recognize the music, but it had a pulse pounding beat and a slightly Goth feel to it. Mark, she realized, was an excellent dancer. His moves weren't fancy. He was rocking side to side, his arms alternating between opening and closing, raising the roof, and rolling the dice. But he moved with power and grace, and she realized that he was really into the music, and the moves. And he was into her. He never took his eyes off her, and he looked feral and predatory.

She knew that look well, because she was a predator herself.

It occurred to Eliza that she hadn't exactly dressed for clubbing, that she hadn't exactly expected to find herself dancing with Mark Gray, that if they started grinding he just might notice the nine millimeter inside her waistband, that Mark was on the hunt, and that she had just become his intended prey. Two predators on the hunt. How had Lewis Carroll put it? If the snark you were hunting was a boojum, then you would vanish away, and never be met with again.

 _The question is, who's the snark, and who's the boojum?_

No matter, at least not here in a public place. Besides, it was kind of nice to think that a predator like Mark thought she was worth preying on, and there was always the thrill of knowing that you were hunting something that could hunt you back. She'd hunted and killed often enough, but she had never deliberately sought out other hunters as her prey. She could understand now why men hunted lions, cape buffalo, and other dangerous game. Mark was a killer among killers. Was she up to the challenge?

 _Careful. Keep focus. You're not here to take him as a trophy. Or jump into bed with him. Either could be a thrill. But this is business. As Dad used to say, the mission comes first._

The music ended, and they returned to their table to find Marta sipping on a tumbler of something clear and fizzy on the rocks with a wedge of lime floating in it.

"Marta," Mark said, "Didn't you say that your friend Dusko was having a party tonight?"

"Yes," Marta replied. "I was planning to go. He said you also were invited."

"Who's Dusko?" Eliza asked.

"This guy we know," Mark explained. "He's an investment banker. His throws a hell of a party. You wanted to meet people while you were here. Well, everyone who's anyone in Skopje will be there."

The sensible thing, Eliza realized, would be to make her excuses and get the hell out. The beast was hungry tonight, and if she stuck around she was likely to end up as the main course. But here Mark was. Her plan had been to contact Marta, and she had. Well, she could try to contact Marta again, later, when Mark wasn't around. Except that might not be so easy to do if they were close. Plus she was pressed for time. Even if she managed to isolate Marta later, she'd basically have to make her pitch cold. If she showed fear, she might lose credibility. So maybe she needed to make a last minute change of plans. Instead of pitching Marta, pitch Mark himself face to face. Tell him that Marta and Dusko were selling him out. She'd be exposing herself, and probably condemning Marta to a messy and painful death. But she'd have what she came for.

 _Holy hell, I'm actually going to do this._

"Let's go," Eliza said.

VIII

They stepped out into the pleasantly cool night air, past a line of people, mostly guys, waiting to get in. Eliza was debating offering to drive. If she was behind the wheel, it would give them a incentive not to point a weapon at her or try anything involving chloroform or a taser. But as they walked past the line of people, Marta pointed down the street. "I'm parked down there," she said. Eliza glanced ahead, and saw that she was pointing at a small parking lot on the left, sandwiched between a blocky gray concrete apartment building and a brick building four stories high that looked like offices.

"I came by cab," Eliza replied. In fact, her Audi was not far away, but maybe it would be best if they didn't know what she was driving. No need to show them a license tag that might be traced back to her. It was a risk either way, but maybe Mark would be more relaxed and likely to listen in Marta's car.

The lot was full, with every car watched over by a parking meter, ticking down the minutes until it had to be moved. Marta was walking towards a blue Ford Focus at the back of the lot, with faced the rear of a another multistory brick building. Marta produced her fob, and the lights flashed on her car as the doors unlocked. Eliza was about to suggest that she get in the back when she heard a voice behind her.

"Mister Gray. I am very disappointed in you."

Mark and Marta both turned as though startled. Eliza turned as well, but noticed as she did so that the alley at the back corner of the lot was disgorging serious looking men in jeans and loose fitting jackets. There were more serious looking men getting out a car parked at the other end of the lot near the street. , and they were walking towards her to back up the man who had spoken, a man with short blond hair, about 5' 6".

 _I was so focused on Gray and Marta I never noticed they were there. Well, Dad always said I'd come to bad end._ Her hands were at her sides.. She reached into the left hand pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone.

"Don't try it," the blond man said to her sharply. He pointed at her phone, and someone came up from behind her and relived her of it.

 _Ok, so they have my phone, so maybe they won't frisk me and find the gun._

"They started it," Mark said. His hand was inching towards the pocket of his slacks.

"And I will finish it if you try anything," the man said. "Please keep your hands where we can see them. The two of you will come with us."

"You'll kill us anyway, Zamir" Mark said. But I'm pretty sure I can take you with me."

"Mark, no," Marta pleaded. "Let's just go with him." She turned to the blonde man. "Zamir, please," she said. In Russian. "Talk to Dusko, I told him..."

"I know what you told him," Zamir replied. Also in Russian.

Eliza remained silent, not wanting to call attention to herself. She looked at Zamir. He had three men behind him. She might get two or three of them with the CZ before one of the men behind her shot her in the back.

"Please listen to her, Mister Gray," the Zamir said in English. "If you come with us, you will live. But I will not hesitate to kill all of you here."

"Please," Marta said.

Yes, please, Eliza thought. Before someone sees and he decides to do the lot of us right here.

"OK" Mark said.

"Who is this?" Zamir asked, nodding at Eliza.

"Someone we picked up," Marta offered.

"Get rid of her," Zamir said.

She could sense movement behind her. Decision time. Fight it out here, and die, or be taken to a secondary location and killed. If she took a bullet here, in the middle of the city, someone would at least hear the shots. If she got taken somewhere, there would be no one to hear the shots, or the screams., or whatever. But at least there might be some chance...

"Please don't," Eliza said. "I haven't done anything. I don't know who you are. I won't tell anyone. Please let me go..."

She was seized from behind by two sets of powerful hands. Her wrists were pulled behind her. Cuffs were snapped on, and tightened uncomfortably. She was turned around to face a dark colored Passat parked next to Marta's Focus. The trunk was opening, and hands were shoving her towards it. She was just starting another rendition of "Please don't" when tape was slapped across her mouth, and she was shoved forward, hard. As she was shoved into the trunk, they doubled her over, and the butt of the CZ jammed painfully into her midriff. She grunted at the pain wondering of they had actually shoved her hard enough to have internal injuries from her own gun. She landed on her face, and felt her legs being lifted inside, and the trunk slammed shut.

IX

They had split Mark and Marta up. Marta was in the back seat of the car that had been parked near the street, a Ford Mondeo. She sat next to Zamir, with two of his men in front.

"How did you find us?" she asked.

"Dusko called me as soon as you called him. Don't look so surprised. Dusko is a practical man, he has to be." He studied her for a moment. "It was Petar's fault. I would have killed him, if Gray hadn't saved me the trouble. In a way, he did me a good turn. I should have rid myself of Petar long ago."

"Are you going to kill us?" she asked.

"No. I still need Mark Gray. And I need you to help control him."

"And after?"

"And after, I really won't care where you go or what you do. You can spend the rest of your lives picking up women in nightclubs and luring them to their deaths. What can you do to me? Go to the Americans and tell them you helped arrange the death of one of their agents because you needed the money, and you wanted to help your serial killer boyfriend? I'm sure they'll lend a sympathetic ear."

"Will you hurt him?"

"Of course. Not too badly, but enough to make the point."

"If you hurt him, he'll stop trusting me. He'll think I betrayed him. Everyone else has."

Zamir looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You really do care about him. Well, there's no accounting for taste. You can keep him under control?"

"He's not someone you can just control. Not everyone is a puppet on your string."

"So I need to hurt him, then. It will be a very precise kind of beating. Repeated blows to exactly the same spot on the head with a sock filled with sand. After a few hours, they will betray the whole world to make it stop."

"Just let me talk to him. Please."

Zamir sat in silence for a moment. "All right. Poor Gusti will be disappointed, but I'll give you a chance. I hope for both of your sakes that you don't let me down the way Mark did."

X

The inside of the trunk was cramped, stifling, and filthy. Eliza lay on her side with her hands cuffed behind her. She could feel a lot of dirt and grit pressed against her cheek. The car was making frequent starts and stops. They must still be in the city. She wondered where she was being taken. Someplace where screaming wouldn't matter. Someplace where her body would never be found.

All she'd wanted was a list of Strauss's students that she could use as assassins, and here she was in the deepest of deep shit. Marta had spoken in Russian to keep Mark from understanding what was said, namely that she'd told Dusko something that Mark wasn't supposed to know. But Marta didn't know that Eliza's father was Russian, and that she'd spoken the language since childhood.

Her grandfather had escaped from Russia when her father, Pyotr Getman, was only eight years old. Young Pyotr had Americanized his name to Peter and married an American woman. He'd also risen in the US Army to the rank of Colonel. After he retired, he'd founded ZR Security Ops, the private military contracting company that Eliza had inherited.

So Marta had told Dusko something that Mark wasn't supposed to know. What? Probably where Mark was. She had no idea what Zamir's beef with Mark Gray was about, but it was pretty clear that whatever was happening, Zamir was in it along with Dusko and Marta, and whatever the game was, Mark Gray was likely to come up a loser.

Before she could do anything to help Mark Gray, if that was even possible, she had to help herself. If that was even possible. The one advantage she had was that they hadn't frisked her before they tossed her in the trunk. She had a gun, if she could get to it. She was facing towards the front of the car. She had to get her hands in front of her, and roll over, so that she could fight for her life when that trunk finally opened.

She had to get her hands over her ankles. It would be a tight squeeze in this trunk. She brought her knees up to her chest. She pushed first her right foot, then her left between her bound wrists. She rolled onto her side facing the rear of the car, lifted up her T shirt, and pulled the CZ from its holster.

XI

The car headed out of the city, and onto a dark empty country road. Their destination was a quarry where they could dispose of the woman in the trunk.

"I still can't believe Zamir let that guy live," the driver said.

"He won't for long," his companion replied. "You turn up here on the right."

"I know. Well, look at it this way. We have to get rid of her, but we get to enjoy her first."

"You mean I get to enjoy her first," the man in the passenger seat pointed out.

"I think not," the driver said.

"And what makes you think you are going first?"

"Because," he said with a grin, "I am strong enough to dig two holes. One for her, and one for you." He looked over at his passenger, and found him scowling. "Don't worry," he said. "There will still be a little something left of her." He turned to the right, towards the quarry.

XII

They were parked beneath a clear sky lit by a Moon that was just past full. There were no lights anywhere nearby. The quarry was located at the end of a dead end road. Just north of the quarry, they could see the woods where they would dispose of their victim. They parked near a corrugated metal shed and got out. They walked to the back of the car, and the driver pressed the button on his fob to unlock the trunk. His companion had a pocket LED flashlight in his left hand. He raised the lid of he trunk with his right hand and pointed the beam inside to reveal a woman pointing a small semiautomatic. She fired four shots at the man holding the flashlight, and he pitched backwards and lay still.

The startled driver dropped the fob in his hand to reach for his gun. Two shots, two blinding muzzle flashes in the darkness, and he could hear the crack of bullets whizzing past his head. The woman must have been blinded by the LED light in her eyes. The driver swept his loose jacket back and broke his gun out of the holster when her third bullet shattered his collarbone. He dropped the gun and staggered backwards. Her next two shots came a couple of seconds later. She must have taken a moment to get a good aim, because these two hit his chest dead center.

XIII.

Eliza hauled herself painfully up out of the trunk. She saw the men lying on the ground in the Moonlight. She kicked the dropped pistol away from the fallen driver, and picked up the LED light. She looked at the men. The man who had held the flashlight had taken a head shot and was clearly dead. His companion, nearby, had a chest wound, and blood was spreading across his dark gray shirt. He was still alive, but probably not for much longer. "You should have frisked me," she said. She raised the CZ and put two insurance rounds into his head.

Finding the handcuff keys would take time, and time was precious, but maybe there was a quicker way to get them off. Eliza got in the back seat, found the seat belt, slipped the tongue of it between the double bows of the left handcuff, and twisted it for all she was worth. The handcuff popped open. She repeated the procedure with the right cuff, and she was free.*

Eliza quickly found the discarded fob lying on the ground. Seconds counted now. No telling who might have heard the shots. She wiped the CZ and the spare magazine for prints and threw them away. She didn't want to have them on her if she got pulled. She quickly went through the pockets of the man who'd taken her phone and retrieved it. She got in the car and breathed a sigh of relief when she found that they'd left the keys in it, and there was a GPS. She had no idea where she was, but could find her way. She started the engine, and headed for Skopje.

XIV

She ditched the car she was driving a couple of blocks from where she had parked her Audi, and walked from there. After that, it was back to the hotel. She ordered a club sandwich from room service along with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. While waiting for it to arrive she stripped off her filthy clothes and changed into a robe. When the sandwich arrived, she wolfed it down and poured herself a double Scotch.

Zamir. She'd heard the name. She'd read it in the news, and in intelligence reports. Zamir Tolka. Currently the most wanted terrorist in Europe. He was Albanian by birth. Politically he was something of a cipher, and if he had any religious beliefs at all, he'd managed to keep it a secret. He was an anarchist to the extent that he was anything. She hadn't gotten a good enough look at him to be sure, but if it was him...What the hell was he doing with Mark Gray? Gray was wanted by the FBI. Dusko Ivanovich had ratted on Mark, so the FBI sends Mike Weston. And Dusko is working hand in glove with Zamir.

So Mike Weston was a dead man.

She realized that she wasn't going to be able to untangle this tonight. She finished her Scotch, and stood under a hot shower for a good long time. After that she had another Scotch, and then crawled under the covers. The last thing she thought before she drifted off to sleep was that Lewis Carroll was right. Sometimes a snark was a boojum, and those guys who had taken her would never be met with again.

XV

They returned to the safe house to find that although Gusti was suffering from a lump on the head and facial burns, Zamir had put him to work cleaning up the kitchen. Apparently Zamir was unhappy with him for losing Mark. At least the boiling water had missed his eyes.

Mark and Marta retreated to mark's bedroom upstairs. "Are you all right?" she asked. She wanted to put her arms around him, she was so happy to see him alive, but he would not have permitted it.

"Yeah, I'm OK. What did you say to Zamir?"

"That Dusko would kill him if he hurt us."

"Dusko doesn't give a rat's ass what happens to either one of us and you know it. And Zamir is way out of his league. You told him where I was, didn't you?"

She nodded silently. "I'm sorry," she said. "I told Dusko that I had found you. I was going to talk to you. Try to get you to come back. I didn't know he'd call Zamir. I swear, I didn't plan any of this. I'm sorry I ever got us into this. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted us to be together. I..."

Mark's right hand flashed out like a snake striking at its prey and seized her by the throat. "I should kill you. You stab me in the back and then they put you in here to spy on me." His hand began to tighten.

She tried to speak, but it required air, which she didn't have. He released her, and shoved her backwards, so that she fell onto his bed. He turned and walked to the window, staring into the darkness outside.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she sobbed. "I wanted to find a way we could be together. I love you."

He turned and stared at her for a moment, fury still in his eyes. He shook his head sadly. "You're a user. Like Dusko. You use people."

"Listen to me. You can make it through this. You can kill Weston. You can have your revenge. You can survive. You don't have to love me, and I wouldn't blame you for hating me. But you have to make it through this. Finish it. But whatever you do, don't do anything else to anger him. Because then he's likely to kill you, and Weston wins."

He looked around the room as if looking for something random to smash. After a moment he seemed to calm down. "OK. We get through this. I kill Weston. But I don't think they're planning to let us live. But that doesn't really matter anyway. As long as Weston is dead, it doesn't make any difference what happens after that."

XVI

Zamir had returned to his flat and had gone to bed when he was woken out of a sound sleep by a phone call. He checked his phone. One of the men he'd left at the safe house.

"Don't tell me the bastard has started more trouble," he said when he picked up the phone.

"He hasn't," the man on the other end replied. "But the men you sent to take care of that woman haven't come back."

"Maybe they're just enjoying themselves."

"It's been four hours. We tried calling them, but they don't answer."

"Check their flat. Make sure there's nothing incriminating in case their bodies are found by the police. I'll call you early."

"I'll get on it."

Zamir tried, but he couldn't get back to sleep. He spent the rest of the night tossing, turning, and wondering who this woman was and what the hell had gone wrong now.

XVII

Eliza's alarm woke her from a dream she couldn't quite remember, and she padded across the room to turn the hellish thing off. She slipped on a robe, and ordered breakfast from room service. The French toast had been made with sticky buns, and flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg. She had quite an appetite. Yesterday had been spent on the go, with little time for meals. Time to carbo load for the day ahead. And she felt exultant. She had survived, so eat well, because eating is a symbol of the continuation of life.

When she had cleaned her plate, she stood by the window, a second cup of coffee in her hand, looking out over the Vardar river, contemplating her next move.

When she'd gotten into this, she hadn't known anything close to the truth. The truth was that she was in over her head. She was faced with an unknown number of heavily armed, ruthless, fanatical killers. The only sensible thing to do now was to call Kaminsky, tell him to make sure Juliana's body was never found, get her ass on the next plane home, and leave Mark Gray and Mike Weston both to die screaming.

But this plan, although attractive, had certain serious flaws in it. First, she wouldn't get the decryption key for that book. Having her own shadow army of untraceable, unstoppable assassins would be both useful and cool, and she hated to give up on the idea.

Second, there would be the question of Dr. Strauss. His master plan to escape from prison would have failed. Sorry about that, Doc. Sucks about you dying in prison, but you know how it is. He'd be disappointed. Maybe even disappointed enough to turn State's evidence and rat on the Organization. Then she'd find herself hunted by literally everyone. The FBI, the CIA, Interpol, and maybe even the Organization, which would be upset that she had let things get out of hand.

And finally, there was the knowledge that if she quit now, she'd have backed down in the face of Zamir Tolka and his bully boys. And that just wouldn't do. Because there might be several hunters in this game, but there was no question in her mind who the top predator was. And there shouldn't be any question in anyone else's mind either.

She put down her coffee cup and picked up her phone. "It's Eliza," she said. "I want to talk to Dragon. Yeah, I'll hold."

Musical Interlude - Living In The Storm by The Pretty Reckless

And from Club Plevna Cabaret Fortune Teller by Audra

===================Chapter Notes =====================

* Handcuffs have a shackle arm, a curved piece of steel which has a sawtooth edge on it, and a double bow, which consists of two curved pieces side by side. The shackle arm is the part that snaps into the lock. It has a sawtooth edge so that the tightness can be adjusted for the wrist of the person being restrained. The shackle arm is held to the double bow by a boss rivet that acts as a hinge. Eliza popped the boss rivet. This won't work on all handcuffs, but it works on a lot of them. Search engine if you are interested.

A couple of side notes. Macedonian cursing is pretty vile, even by American standards. Petar's insult, not uncommon in Macedonia, has been watered down a bit for ratings.

Mike said in S3E1 that he had heard Max had joined the FBI. He never said how. It might have been reported in the media given that Team Hardy was famous, but then he would likely have said that he had seen it in the news or read it. Shaving with Occam's razor, if he was told by someone while he was overseas it was most likely someone who knew him and who also knew Max. The simplest explanation is that he got it from Ryan.

23


	4. Somebody Might Still Care

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Hi gang. So I'm back after a long hiatus. I'm sorry for the long time between updates, but real life kind of threw me for a loop. Some personal and work issues just kept me from writing. I've tried in the past to maintain an update a month, give or take, but it just hasn't been possible. Things are getting back to some semblance of normal, and hopefully this won't happen again. My apologies to my readers, and I hope I still have some after all of this.

Chapter 4 - Somebody Might Still Care

The morning glow revealed a ragged layer of altostratus clouds partly hiding the blue sky above, but Skopje was still cloaked in the shadow of the surrounding mountains. Mike looked over the gray Haibike Urban he had rented from Rachit, a talkative Indian man in his late twenties who apparently helped the owners of the hotel by manning the desk part time. Rachit was explaining to Erin that they only rented top of the line bikes here, and that he was going to get a Haibike for himself, but at the moment he had to make do with a Visp. He went on to explain that if they were going biking in the country, they should certainly go and see Matka Canyon. It wasn't far, and the scenery was very beautiful.

With papers signed and the deposit paid, they managed to detach themselves from Rachit, who was telling them about the Medieval monasteries he had toured in Matka canyon. They cycled a few doors down to a bistro for a quick breakfast at an outside table. The coffee was served in something that looked like a whiskey shot glass, and it came black, sweet, and very strong. Mike realized that he needed the coffee more than he needed the sausage and pastries. Between the hard mattress and unwanted three in the morning thoughts that wouldn't switch off, sleep had been brief and restless.

They'd dressed for the warm weather. Mike had put on shorts, a loose T shirt to hide his Glock, and running shoes. Erin opted once again for loose fitting cargo pants and an untucked linen shirt over a T shirt. Modest but flattering, and it gave her lots of places to hide whatever array of weapons and gadgets they'd fitted her out with.

"I checked on the way over," Erin said, "But there was no mark this morning."

"So Dusko hasn't heard anything about Marta"

"It just means he isn't trying to make contact. We'll give him some more time. Maybe he'll have something for us by the time we get back."

"How long will we be gone?" Mike asked.

"It's not far. We've got about a twelve kilometer ride. Uphill mostly. Hope you're not out of shape."

"I'm pretty sure I can keep up."

"Good. That Rachit guy is right. It is beautiful up in the hills. That canyon he talked about - I've been there on vacation. Last year. That's what gave me the idea of using the bikes. If we take a car, and we cruise slowly by this place, we're gonna stand out. But this way, we keep a low profile. We're just two tourists out seeing the sights."

"Dusko said this place was set back from the road."

"True," Erin replied. "But that's another reason for the bikes. They hide easier than a car. We can conceal them in the woods for a short time and move on foot. Get a close look at whatever there is to see."

"You plan ahead."

"Thanks. I've been doing this for a while."

"You must have been awfully young, then, when you joined the Army."

"I was," she said. I deployed the first time to Afghanistan when I was nineteen. Two tours. The Company after that. Except for my training when I joined the Company, I've hardly lived in the States since I enlisted."

"I called someone," Mike said.

"Oh?"

"I called Ryan. I asked him to try to trace that bank account."

"That phone of yours encrypted?"

Mike paused for a moment without answering.

"I didn't think so," Erin said. "Well, let's hope no one was listening."

"Who would be listening?"

"I used to work with a guy who was fond of using the phone when he was on the job. He used to communicate with other agents that way instead of going to the trouble of a face to face meet. He also called his wife a lot. That was what got him. Someone traced one of those calls home."

"What happened?" Mike asked.

"He got a one way ticket home. Desk job after that. But the agent he was supposed to be meeting was hanged."

She sipped the last of her coffee. "It'll probably be OK," she said. "But that's how it always is. It's OK until it isn't." She glanced at the check, put a few brightly colored bills down on the table, and put her glass on top of them to weight them down. "My treat. Let's get this show on the road."

II

The morning Lufthansa flight into Skopje was a half hour late. Eliza passed the time waiting by alternately browsing news sites on her phone and thinking of all the ways what she was planning could go wrong. There was still time to bail. But she wanted that decryption key. And there was one more thing.

Damned if she'd admit to Strauss or anyone else that she'd failed.

A female voice on the PA system announced that Lufthansa flight 6444 was arriving. She turned off the screen on her phone, slipped it into the pocket of her suit jacket, stood, and waited for her people to appear.

They arrived looking like three up and coming young executives on a business trip. Juliana had chosen a dark suit with a skirt. She was carrying a briefcase that Kaminsky would have stuffed with important looking papers. Stinnes and Kaminsky might both have military backgrounds, but they cleaned up good, and in expensive business suits, walking behind Juliana, they could have passed for investment bankers. One of the advantages of working for Eliza was a generous clothing allowance. How her people looked reflected on her, and her bodyguards dressed to impress.

"How was your flight?" she asked Juliana.

"It was good."

"OK, I've got the three of you booked into the Milvany downtown. Juliana, you'll have your own room, but don't go wandering around unaccompanied. We'll get you booked in, and then you can all freshen up. I've got a car waiting. The three of you ride together. I'll meet you over there, and then we can go over a few things."

"Is anything wrong?" Juliana asked.

"No, but we need to go over some details. Collect our equipment."

"I have to be back in a couple of days," Juliana said.

"And I was hoping we'd be able to take in Euro Disney World," Eliza replied. "Let's go, then. I wouldn't want to waste your valuable time."

III

"That's a minaret."

"Yeah," Erin said. They're all over Skopje. All over this part of Europe for that matter. Didn't you read up on this place?"

"Yeah," Mike said, "but I just never saw one before."

The mosque they were passing was two story, stone, and not much larger than many of the surrounding houses and buildings. Like most of the buildings in town, it sported a peaked, red tile roof. What set it apart was the single minaret attached to one corner, looking like a medieval attempt at rocketry ready to take flight. They were on a secondary road through Saraj, a rural township on the western edge of Skopje. Ahead they could see a truss bridge over the Treska river to their left.

"Most of the people in this country are Orthodox Christian," Erin explained. "But it's about one third Muslim."

"Do they get along?" Mike asked.

" Mostly. But this country has been on the brink of civil war a few times. It's the Balkans. There's a lot of blood feuds here, and some of them go back centuries. Some of them are religious, some ethnic, and there's outsiders who come and fish in troubled waters. To a lot of people, this part of the world is a chessboard, and they come here to play. They play for high stakes, and sometimes they play rough.."

"Like who, for example?"

"Us. The Russians. NATO. Turkey. Iran. The Saudis. A bunch of terrorist groups and militias that most people never hear about. Half the time you don't know who's doing what to whom or why."* She stopped pedaling for a moment, and took a swig from the water bottle in the holder attached to her bike. She looked around at the peaceful countryside. They had emerged from the town and were surrounded by well manicured open fields. Ahead the Treska River was concealed behind a curtain of trees, the bridge an opening through which they could see the fields beyond. "It's a beautiful country, and the people are mostly just like people anywhere. A religion is what you make of it. No more and no less. It's not what's written down in a book. It's what in your heart.." She put the water bottle back in its holder. "Guess that makes me an optimist."

"Nothing wrong with that," he said, smiling. "It can't be easy for someone who's seen what you have."

"You've seen some pretty bad stuff yourself. You lost your father. How's your optimism holding up?"

He thought for a moment. "Maybe not as good as yours."

"We might be close to getting your guy. Then you can go home."

"Yeah. But to what?"

"You said there was someone."

"Was," he replied. "Past tense."

"You sure?" she asked. "Because you don't sound like it."

He didn't answer, opting for a drink from his own water bottle. "I left her," he said, as he put the bottle away.

"I don't know if she'll forgive you," Erin replied. "But I'm pretty sure you'll have to forgive yourself first. That can be the hardest thing." She began pedaling in the direction of the bridge, and Mike followed.

IV

"Where is my car?" Marta demanded.

The thug she was speaking to was a short, broad fireplug of a man with a crooked, flattened nose that might have been broken more than once. But something about him told Marta that the other guy had probably gotten off a lot worse.

"We picked it up last night and brought it here," he explained. He seemed far more interested in the mug of tea he had just poured from the French press sitting on the kitchen counter than in the fate of Marta's car.

"I need it. I have to go out."

"No you don't."

"I haven't a change of clothes. I need things from my flat."

"You need Zamir's permission to go out."

"Well call him."

The man reluctantly set his tea down and fished his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans.

"Zamir? It's Mirko. She wants to go get some things from her flat."

"Let me talk to him," she insisted.

"And she wants to talk to you." A moment passed while Zamir said something, then Mirko handed her the phone and returned to his tea.

"I haven't anything clean to wear," Marta complained. "And Dusko had said something about setting up a meeting with Mike Weston."

"How's your boyfriend this morning?"

"He's fine, no thanks to you."

"Will he remain calm in your absence? Because you aren't going together."

"He'll be fine."

"I hope so, because I will hold you responsible if he makes trouble. What did you learn about the woman you picked up last night?"

"Nothing, really."

"Did she have a name?" Zamir asked.

"She said her name was Eliza."

"No last name then? Did she say where she was from?"

"She was American."

"And you picked her up in the club?"

"Yes. What is all of this about?"

"The men I sent to take care of her are dead."

"You should hire better men."

"Go get your things," Zamir said. "Meet Dusko if you must. And return. Please don't make me look for you."

"I promise to be on my best behavior," she said acidly.

"All right then. Give the phone back to Mirko."

She handed Mirko back his phone, and after a brief exchange with Zamir, he handed over her key ring.

V

This was a morning meeting, and whatever favors the garage owner owed didn't extend to closing up his business during regular hours. The meeting this time would take place on the site of a large industrial facility that covered about three acres and had many buildings and multiple gates. Eliza had been directed to the main office and told to ask for Mr Angelov about buying some brass valves.

The young woman on the front desk told her that Mr Angelov was expecting her, and she was directed to a cinder block building with truck loading docks on the facing side. All five of the rollup doors were closed. On the end was an open rollup door with two forklifts parked next to it. She drove to it and parked her Audi next to the open bay. She got out, carrying a briefcase containing the cash to pay for today's purchases.

Inside were large rolls of copper tubing stacked along one wall, and stacks of cardboard boxes on pallets along the opposite wall. One of the hoods she'd seen with Stan was standing by a stack of pallets, wearing a hard hat, and pretending interest ina clipboard he was holding. Seeing her, he removed a walkie talkie from his belt and said something into it in Macedonian. He pointed to a door at the back of the bay. "In there," he said, in English.

The room beyond was a windowless office with filing cabinets, cheap desks with computers, and even cheaper office furniture. Boxes sat on the desks with two of Stan's hoods keeping watch. One of the desks had no boxes, but had a styrofoam cup of what smelled like tea with a plastic lid on it. Dragon sat behind that desk, this time wearing a Navy Montedoro suit jacket, a white dress shirt with a blue birdseye pattern and no tie, and white slacks. It was a far cry from the coveralls he'd worn at the garage.

Dragon, she realized, cleaned up pretty good.

Dragon rose when she entered. "Good to see you again," he said. "My Father is traveling on business. He told me to take good care of you."

"So the owner of this place owes you a favor too?" Eliza asked.

"I am the owner," Dragon replied with smile. "Well, part owner anyway."

"I had no idea," Eliza said admiringly.

"This was my idea, not my father's. I told him that it would be useful to have an explanation for where we got all the money he was making. And since I majored in business, it gives me a chance to put my degree to use."

"Where did you study?", she asked.

"The Frankfurt School Of Finance And Management."

"I never knew anything about Stan's family. So you're following in his footsteps?"

"He's talking about retiring, but I can't see him sitting idle. He'll still be involved. In the meantime, I have what you requested. Some of it was hard to get on short notice. You increased your order at the last minute."

"Yes, well...I underestimated what we'd need."

"I find that hard to believe, but as you wish. Would you like to examine your merchandise?"

"Yes, please."

Dragon nodded at one of the hoods, who began opening cases. Inside two of the cases, Eliza found handguns for herself and her bodyguards, along with ammunition, holsters, and spare magazines. There were two more cases, one of them about the size of a carry case for a laptop, the other long and thin, maybe sized for a golf club or a fishing rod. She examined the contents of these cases carefully.

"I was surprised," Dragon said, "when you requested these."

She handed him the briefcase full of cash. "I didn't expect to need them."

"I hesitated before filling the order. My father says you are a most valued customer, and that you can be trusted, but I hope you aren't planning anything that will bring down too much heat."

She smiled. Sweetly, she hoped. "I'm the soul of discretion."

He placed the briefcase on the desk he had been sitting behind, opened it, and examined the money. He selected a wad of bills from the bottom and riffed through it. He replaced the stack of bills and closed the briefcase up.

"I believe you," he said.

"If you don't mind my asking...why this? I mean, with a degree from Frankfurt you could work anywhere."

"I could ask the same of you," he said. "Partly out of loyalty. My father paid for my schooling. But also, I was hoping at one time to work in the financial field. London, maybe. And I read an article in Forbes about the giants of the American tech industry. Gates, Jobs, Zuckerberg. And these people were called innovative, and daring, and disruptive. They were said to be on the cutting edge of business, because they had figured out new ways to sell people's personal data, send them targeted advertising, and make it possible for them to post their selfies online. And I thought no. Because we're really the ones on the cutting edge of capitalism, aren't we? We're the ones who shake up the existing order. I wanted something different. We won't ever be profiled in Forbes. But we'll make our mark. Change the world, maybe."

"So are you a visionary, or are you in it for the thrill?"

Dragon smiled a predatory smile. He might have been sizing her up as a business partner or a bed partner. "Can't I be both?" he asked.

"I think I'd be disappointed if you weren't. Well, I have to be getting back. My guys need this stuff."

Dragon gestured at the cases, and said something to one of the hoods. They began picking up the cases. "They'll load your merchandise," he said. "How long are you in town?"

She hesitated before replying. "A couple of days."

"Good. There will be time for us to get together. After you conclude your business." He paused for a moment. "I'll be here for a few more days before I leave. So after you're done..."

 _And if I'm still alive. No, be optimistic. Because if you say yes, it's like promising yourself that you'll still be around._ "Yes," she said. "After I'm done."

She was, she reflected, breaking one of her own rules. But maybe the ones on the cutting edge get to make up the rules as they go along.

VI

As Erin had promised, it was all uphill. They paused at a narrow road that led off the main highway to the right. Mike looked back at the fields they had passed through that were now below them. "This road to the right," Erin said, "takes us past the house."

"Nice view from up here," Mike commented. "I can see what you and Rachit were talking about. "Are those all greenhouses?"

"Yeah. Acres and acres of them. The countryside south of Skopje is full of them. They do a lot of farming in those things."

"Why?"

"Beats me. Something to do with the climate, maybe. I read something about this area being hit by droughts due to climate change." She grinned, and took off her shades for a moment. As she did so, he noticed that she had blue eyes. Like Max. He hadn't noticed her eyes before. "I'm a spook," she said, "not a farmer."

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her T shirt. The day was getting warm. "The place will be on the right. We'll pause in front of it, but only for a moment. We don't want to draw attention."

"That won't give us much chance to observe," he said.

"We'll have plenty of time to observe. See, there's a side road that loops around. We cycle past, we move along, and then we go up that side road. We get behind the house, and if we're lucky, we can find a place in the woods to stash the bikes. Then we hike a short distance, and come up behind the house. We can get close."

"I'm starting to be really glad you're on our side," Mike said. "I'll race you to the top."

'Loser buys the beers when we get back."

"You're on." He began pedaling with a will.

VII

Max awakened with a start. Something seemed wrong. She'd been dreaming. Normally she didn't remember her dreams, but this time she did.

She'd been with Mike. It was in the hospital. She'd been sitting by his bed, and she'd been afraid. She must have been, because she was terrified now. _Nightmares. Hell. Just what I need right now._

She suddenly sat bolt upright. She reached for her phone on the night stand beside her and looked at the time. Jesus, why hadn't the alarm gone off? Had she set it. She checked, and yes, she had. What had happened? Was it the lack of sleep? The vodka? She hadn't drunk that much. She shot out of bed and practically dove for the bathroom. No time to shower. No time for breakfast. She'd have to settle for running a brush through her hair, which felt like a rat's nest. _My first day. And it's off to a great start._

VIIII

The house was, as Dusko had told them, set back from the road. It was white, with a red tile roof. It was three stories, but fairly compact. The second floor was actually a bit wider than the ground floor, and a staircase led up to a terrace on the second floor. Lots of windows, including bay windows on the front. Trees partly obscured the view from the road. An outbuilding next to the house looked like a garage.

This guy is living awfully well for a fugitive," Erin said.

"The Gray family had serious money."

"Yeah, but this? I mean, if I was on the run, I'd stretch my money. Make it last, especially if someone was trying to run me out of it. This is like a vacation villa. Either he's richer than even you thought, or he's totally irresponsible, or he's got a sizable income."

"We're talking about the world's richest serial killers."

"You have some really interesting friends. I'd like to meet this guy."

"No you don't. The only way I want to see Mark is over open sights."

She looked at him sharply. "You don't want to see him in prison?"

"Yeah, I do."

"That side road is just up ahead. It's a little ways downhill. We can go down that, come back uphill, and maybe get in behind this place."

"So it's uphill both ways," Mike said. "Well that figures. But on the bright side...you're buying."

IX

It was, indeed, uphill both ways. As the road curved and started to turn downhill, they came to a narrow road on the right that led into some woods headed towards the crest of the ridge they were on. The view was gone, hidden by trees on all sides. "Where does this go?" Mike asked.

"No place, really. It loops back to the road we came up from Skopje. In fact, we'll use this to get back, so that we don't have to pass the front o that house twice. I think this might have been built for a developer. We should be able to see the back of the house up ahead. Then we can find a place to ditch the bikes in the woods."

About ten minutes later, they caught a glimpse of the red tile roof of the house through the trees. "OK," Erin said, "let's start looking for a place to hide the bikes."

A short distance from the house they found a spot with tall weeds growing on the shoulder of the road. Erin turned off the road, dismounted, and began pushing her bike into the woods. "This looks good," she said. This spot gets a little more sun because it's just downslope, so it gets more undergrowth. We'll leave them on the other side of this thicket and walk."

They walked towards the house, moving slowly and quietly. Ahead, Mike could see the beginnings of a downwards slope, and he could barely make out the house beyond it. He held up his hand, stopped, and pointed ahead. Erin nodded and pointed at the ground, mothing the word "down". Mike nodded his assent, sank to his knees, and began slowly and carefully low crawling forwards.

Some undergrowth offered them cover about sixty yards from the house. The view from here was partly obstructed by trees, which would make it hard to spot them, but also limited their view. Still, Mike thought, it was a start. They could observe for a while, and then see just how close they could work in.

"Two outbuildings," he whispered. "The one to the left of the driveway looks like a garage."

"Yeah," Erin replied. A two car garage at that."

"Is that a storage building behind the house?" Mike asked.

Erin reached into her fanny pack and produced a small set of field glasses. "You know, I actually think it might be a sauna. Dude lives good."

"Nothing but the best for Lily's kids. Can I look?"

She handed him the glasses. "Only for a minute. If he spots a reflection off those lenses, we might be in some trouble."

"He's not gonna see us. He's having a nice relaxing steam. I bet he's got a Jacuzzi too."

Mike peered through the glasses. "I don't see anyone moving around in there. Let's get closer."

"Not so fast. We can wait here for a while. It's still early. We might even be able to hang out until after dark. We don't want to be moving around if he decides on a day at the spa."

She waited while Mike peered at the house. "Mike? Can I have my glasses back.?"

"In a minute."

"Bloody hell."

"Why didn't you bring an extra pair?"

"To keep you from looking through them all the time until he spotted the reflection."

"He's not gonna see me. I'll give them back in a minute."

"God, you're annoying. And pig headed."

X

Max clipped her newly minted plastic ID badge to the front pocket of the Navy slacks she wore and walked briskly to the Command Center, where she'd been told she'd likely find Gina. She hoped she didn't look too much like someone who'd managed to oversleep on her first day. Gina was there, watching some surveillance footage from a stakeout that had apparently been shot in low light. Sitting in front of her at the monitor was a man with sandy brown hair graying at the temples, and standing next to her was a brunette with an olive complexion. "That looks sort of like him," the brunette was saying, "but the lighting isn't very good. We need to enhance that image."

"Well see what you can do with it," Gina replied. "Next time I'll ask them if they'd like to pose for..." Her thought trailed off as she noticed Max. "Sloane," she said to the brunette. "This is Max Hardy. She'll be working with you. Show her where everything is. Max, I'd like you to meet Erin Sloane."

Sloane extended her hand "It's good to meet you," she said. "I've heard so much about you."

"Yeah," Max replied. That's the problem with being famous. Has anyone seen Ryan?"

"No," Gina said, "but if you see him wandering around tell him I need to see a contact report on that CI he met, and this month would be nice. Excuse me." She picked up a folder from the desk in front of her and walked off in the direction of her office.

"Let's get you settled in," Erin said, "Your desk is over here. They gave you a locker?"

"Yeah."

"I was just looking at some footage of some hacker guy who we think was involved in skimming a few hundred million from the LMS Commercial bank. They managed to transfer it to an account in the Caymans. We ran it down, and they'll recover the money, or at least most of it, but we need to find out if these guys had inside help. I think they might have."

They came to a room with four desks and terminals. "That's yours," Sloane said, indicating an empty desk. "I'll call IS and get them to set you up with a login password."

"Good morning," said a familiar voice behind them. Max turned to find Ryan standing in the door. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I'm kind of behind on my paperwork, and I need to run a trace on a couple of bank accounts..."

"It begins," Max interrupted. She turned to Sloane. "I had asked for LA. But Ryan said I should come here because family, and togetherness, and he needed someone to do his scut work."

"It'll give me a break," Sloane said.

Max held out her hand for the paper. "I wondered who was taking care of it in my absence."

Ryan handed the paper to Max. "You two are brutal. You should make a great team."

"Speaking of paperwork," Max said, "Gina is waiting for a contact report. Impatiently."

"Tell her it's coming."

"You tell her," Max replied as Ryan beat a hasty retreat.

XI

"He's coming out," Mike said.

"Let me see. Mike? Glasses. Now."

"And he's not alone."

"Mike, they're my glasses."

Mike peered through Erin's field glasses at the three men coming out of the house. The one in the middle was Mark Gray. The sight of the man who had murdered his father was throwing Mike's adrenal glands into overdrive. He wished he had a rifle with a scope. No. Scratch that. He wanted this to be up close and personal. And in the end, he told himself, it would be.

He'd be close enough to touch the bastard.

They walked to one of the outbuildings, and one of the men produced something small from his pocket. A rollup door began to open. Inside was a blue SUV, a VW of some description.

"Who are those guys?" he asked. "Anyone you recognize?" he handed her the glasses.

"About time," she growled. "You are NOT getting these back."

"Anyone you recognize?" he asked again.

She studied the men. "No."

They got in the SUV, one of the men getting into the driver's seat, while Mark got in back with the second man.

"Who the hell are those guys?" Mike asked. "Followers?"

"They could almost be bodyguards," she replied. "He's got money to burn. Maybe he hired security."

The car pulled out of the building and drove off, turning onto the road. The rollup door closed as it moved away.

"Well, we know he's here," she said. "We can alert the team and...Mike? What do you think you're doing?"

Mike stood up, but kept himself in a low crouch and began moving towards the house, trying to take advantage of whatever cover the ground afforded. He looked at back at Erin. Her face was a mixture of shock, horror, and rage. _Bastard_ she mouthed, and began to follow.

He approached the back of the house cautiously. He passed the sauna and slipped quietly up to the right hand corner of the house, looking anxiously p at the windows. The upstairs windows were covered with curtains. There were no doors at ground level. Access was gained by climbing a flight of stairs to the back door. He walked slowly, in case the stairs, which were made of wood and stained dark brown, should squeak. He reached the back door, and peered in through the small windows on either side. Nothing moved inside.

Mike reached into his pocket and produced his burglary tools. If there was something fancy on this door like a digital lock, he was out of luck. No, it looked like a good old five pin tumbler lock - the most common type on the planet, and the easiest to pick. His tools were rudimentary, metal from a can bent to make a hook pick and a tension wrench. He inserted the hook pick and began to cautiously feel for the pins in the lock. Erin had drawn a Glock pistol, carried inside the waistband of her shorts and concealed under a loose, dark blue T shirt. From the look on her face, he wasn't sure if she was covering him, or about to murder him on the spot.

"Where the hell did you get those?" she whispered.

"Made 'em myself," he replied. "Ryan taught me."

XII

He thought back to before he'd departed for Europe. He and Ryan had been in a bar. Ryan had been drinking a ginger ale. Mike had lost count of exactly how many shots of Jack he'd drunk, but he knew it was a lot. More than ususal for him. He'd left Max in tears. If Ryan hadn't been there, he might have cried himself.

"Are you sure about this?" Ryan asked.

"Yes. I'm sure. Don't try to talk me out of it."

"OK, I won't. But let me ask you something. If your father were here now, would he want you to do this?"

Mike didn't answer. Instead he downed another shot and motioned to the waitress.

"Because," Ryan continued, "I think he'd want you to be happy."

"And you think I'll be happier with Max?"

"Well, you didn't exactly look unhappy with her."

"So you want me to stay here?" Mike asked.

"Yes," Ryan said. "And no."

"Another shot," Mike said to the waitress.

"What I want," Ryan said, "is for you and Max both to be happy. If you stay, you'll brood about this and let it eat at you. You'll make yourself miserable. Her too, probably. If you go, you'll make her miserable. Yourself too, probably."

"Well I either stay or go," Mike said acidly. "So if we're miserable either way, then I might as well go, because that way I can at least get Mark."

"Or you could reconsider your priorities," Ryan replied. "Because I think this is a mistake."

"Because it's not like you just had to get Joe or anything."

"Well you're not going to learn from my mistakes, so at least let's make sure your own mistakes don't get you killed. Because I want you to come back safe. And Max will want that too. So if you're going to do this, then maybe there's some things I can teach you. Things that aren't in the book."

"Like?"

"I'm talking about the Dark Side," Ryan said. "I'm pretty sure you're not going to do this by the book. So there's a few things I can show you."

The waitress placed a shot of Jack in front of Mike. "Thanks," he said. His speech was slightly slurred. "So your idea," he said to Ryan as the waitress retreated," is to show me how to do the wrong thing in the right way."

"Right."

Mike downed his shot in one gulp. " You know, that actually makes sense."

"That's because you're drunk," Ryan replied.

XIII

He felt the first pin lift and inserted the tension wrench into the lock. A long nerve racking minute passed as he carefully lifted each of the other four pins, and the lock turned. Mike opened the door cautiously, and stepped inside.

The living room was open and airy, with a massive L shaped couch facing a coffee table set with large candles with no candle holders. A stack of DVDs sat next to the candles. None of the covers were printed in English.

"You learn that trick in the Bureau?" Erin asked.

"From Ryan."

"They should have sent your pal Ryan over here with you. They could have assigned me to something safe. Disarming bombs, maybe. This is insane."

"Let's have a look around," Mike said.

There were snack trays and empty bags of some kind of snacks in front of the TV. There were empty beer bottles as well. The kitchen was spotless. They never found the Jacuzzi Mike had expected, but the master bath was still pretty impressive. A raised tub with track lighting overhead. The bedrooms upstairs were small. One held a double bed. It was Mark's. There were pictures of Lily and Luke on the night stand. Another bedroom held twin beds. These unmade. In the third room upstairs, presumably another bedroom, they found the cameras.

One wall was draped in black sheets. A heavy wooden chair sat in front of it. A video camera was set up on a stand across the room, pointing at the chair. A table in the corner held zip ties meant for human restraint, a black hood, and what looked like a medical bag. Mike cautiously looked inside. He could see syringes, vials of drugs with the labels printed in Cyrillic script, a blood pressure cuff, and a stethoscope. Next to it was a hinged wooden box held shut by a padlock. Mike reached into his pocket and produced the small leather wallet that held his lockpicks.

"Mike, no."

He ignored her, and pulled out a couple of shims, which he inserted into the shackes of the padlock. He turned the shims, releasing the shackles and opening the lock.

Inside was some kind of electrical device, with a couple of meters, switches and knobs. Electrical cord was wrapped up and tied in a bundle."

"What's that?" Mike asked.

"There's different names for it. Sometimes it's called a picana. It's used for electric shock torture. We need to leave."

"I guess he's got his own internet show. America's Next Top Serial Killer"

"When we catch him we can ask him for a link to his back episodes."

"Why not stay here and wait for them?" Mike asked. "We could just grab him."

"And get him out how?" She stared at Mike for a moment, as if expecting an answer, and then comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh Christ, you aren't planning to take him alive, and you never were."

"You can't call for a chopper?"

"Not by daylight and you know it. Mike, last warning. I'm not the people you're used to dealing with at the FBI. Lock that thing up. We're leaving or you're staying. And you won't be giving them my name."

He looked at her, remembering the time Max had drawn a pistol on him when he had been savagely beating Luke Gray. Max had been furious, and at the same time fearful for him if he didn't get a grip. But he didn't think she would ever have killed him. Erin, he realized, wasn't Max.

"Ok," he said, closing up the shock box. "We'll ask him about this when we have him in custody."

"We will. I hope you can do as good a job picking that lock on the door closed as you did getting it open."

"I learned from an expert."

"You know, I'm starting to understand why they let you go overseas," she said as they started for the door. "Having you and Ryan together must have been like nitro and glycerine."

XIV

The Milvany wasn't as opulent as the hotel Eliza had booked for herself, but it was still s solid four stars. She'd booked connecting rooms for Juliana and her two bodyguards. She'd returned to find Stinnes and Kaminsky finishing up a meal from room service and Juliana asleep.

"Stinnes," she said, "go wake up Sleeping Beauty. We'll need her soon enough."

Stinnes went through the connecting door to Juliana's room while Eliza surveyed her purchases from Dragon. She'd brought back new Walther P99c pistols for all of them along with shoulder holsters, magazines, and ammo. There were also a couple of flash bang grenades. The long case held a Dragunov SVD rifle with a scope. ** It was quite a little arsenal, and it had caused Dragon to wonder just how much hell she was planning to raise.

In fact, Eliza realized, she was starting to wonder about that herself.

An open laptop sat on one of the beds. It was connected by a cable to a GPS unit the size of a smartphone. The screen showed a map of Skopje and the surrounding area. A red target hack showed the location of Marta Pandev's focus. It was, for the moment, sitting in a wooded area southeast of Skopje. Eliza suspected that the house revealed by aerial photos was where Zamir was keeping Marta and Mark Gray. She could afford to wait a while to see if the car was moved, but if it stayed where it was it would complicate her plans, since they had to have Juliana back in the States and might not be able to wait their quarry out.

Stinnes returned a moment later with a sleepy looking Juliana in tow. "Wakey," Eliza said. "It's almost showtime. We'll get you some coffee. Trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah. Every time I'd lay down I kept having nightmares about some psycho bitch who liked to torture and dissect people."

"There's a song by Warren Zevon called I'll Sleep When I'm Dead," Eliza said. "Ever listen to it?"

Juliana glanced around at Stinnes and Kaminsky, and then at the floor.

"This is what we brought you here for," Eliza said. "I've located Mark Gray, and we're going to bring him back. But there's a few complications. Some people are guarding him. Very unpleasant people. So this is turning into something of a rescue."

"How many people are we talking about?" Kaminsky asked.

"I'm not sure, but however many there are, there's two less this morning because I killed two of them last night."

"Who are they?" Juliana asked.

"Well one of them is named Zamir Tolka."

"The terrorist?" Juliana asked. "Are you serious?"

"So you read the news," Eliza said.

"Yes I read the news. We have to go home."

"Not until we have Mark."

"Are you out of your mind? That guy is a stone killer."

"So am I," Eliza said. "I can handle Tolka."

"The Navy SEALS can handle Tolka."

"There's a girl,' Eliza replied. "Her name is Marta Pandev. I met her last night. She's close to Mark, and I think she'll help us. We have to wait for a chance to make contact. I've got a tracker on her car, so we can follow that. We can find out from her how many of them there are, and what they're doing with Gray. If I can get some information, I can improvise a rescue. Stinnes, if you would please, take Juliana to her room and keep an eye on her."

Stinnes wordlessly motioned towards the connecting door, and Juliana followed him out of the room.

"Ma'am," Kaminsky said, after Juliana had gone, "With all due respect, are you sure about this?"

"No. Which is why I'm going in after Gray myself. The two of you will handle support and mind Juliana."

"Ma'am, I worked for your father. I think he'd want me to do more than just handle support. And are you sure this is worth it?"

"This is about more than just getting that decryption key. We need to get Doctor Strauss out of prison so that I can kill him."

"Kill him? You mean..."

"Yes. If he escapes they'll be after him. I told Mr Arkane ***that I was concerned about what Mark Gray might know about us. What Joe Carroll might have known, or revealed. That I was worried about Ryan getting involved. That wasn't quite true. He probably didn't believe it anyway. I'm worried about Ryan Hardy, but I'm really worried about is what happens after Dr Strauss escapes, and Ryan goes into hunt mode. If Ryan catches up with Strauss, he'll make the man talk. Don't get me wrong. I want that list. But I can only use it if we can keep our existence hidden. And the list also provides a cover story if I need one. If the Committee finds out what we're doing here, I can tell them I wanted that list, and conceal the truth. That I know that Strauss has to die. The Chairman can't see it. He's blinded by sentiment. He loved Strauss. So did I, really, but that doesn't keep me from seeing the truth. He's become a liability. A threat to everything we've built. And I'll do whatever it takes."

Kaminsky nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought about it. You're right, of course. I'm sorry I questioned you."

"It's OK," she said, smiling. "You graduated top of your class in sniper school, as I recall."

"I did." he looked at the SVD. "I used that type a lot when I was in Spetznaz." ****

"Well, you can take use it this time, if we need it. And it's OK to ask questions in private."

"Thank you," Kaminsky replied. "You know you can count on the two of us for anything."

"And I'll have to. When we do kill Strauss ... and Juliana, because we'll have to do her too...I will need help."

The open laptop emitted a beep. Eliza glanced at the screen. "She's on the move," she said. "Or at least her car is. Get Stinnes. We're rolling."

XV

Max hung up the phone and sat staring at her computer screen. A half eaten energy bar sat by the computer, along with a cup containing the remains of her coffee, now long cold. "I'm sorry about this," she said.

"It's OK," Sloane replied, without looking up from her desk. "So how's it going there with Ryan's homework?"

"Well, I got what he wanted."

"What did he want?"

"Not what he said he wanted."

Sloane looked up this time. "Say what?"

"In a minute." She picked the phone back up and dialed Ryan.

"Hey," Ryan said. "So how's the first day going?"

"I'm finding my way around. I finished that trace. I'm sending the results to your inbox. What was all of this about anyway?"

"It's mob money. From that stock scam I was telling you about. The one where those two analysts were killed."

"Uh huh. Some of it ended up in Switzerland. And Macedonia."

"Crime has gone global."

"And apparently so have we."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Did you catch up with Gina?"

"She caught up with me," Ryan said.

"And chewed your ass out."

"How did you guess?"

"Listen, I need to be working on a case of my own. Sloane is up to her eyeballs here and I need to help her out."

"OK. Thanks a lot for this.'

"No problem," Max said. "And good luck with that criminal in Macedonia."

Ryan paused a moment before answering. "Yeah," he said at last. " Uh...I gotta go." He disconnected, and Max put down her phone.

"Macedonia?" Sloane asked.

"Yeah, there's a guy running around in Macedonia, and he's definitely up to no good."

XVI

Mike fumbled with his homemade lockpicks, trying to get the door to the safe house closed so that no one would know they had been there.

"Any time, now," Erin said.

"I'm almost there."

"You said that five minutes ago. You want me to take a shot at it?"

"I've got it."

"I've done a little breaking and entering myself, you know."

"I've got it."

"I've had the locks and picks course at The Farm. I've broken into high security..."

"I've got it."

"Shit."

"No, I mean I've got it. Let's go."

They retrieved their bikes and started back towards Skopje.

"So what did we learn?" Mike asked.

"I don't know what we learned about them, but I definitely learned something about you."

"You wanted to know if Mark was there, well now we know he's there. And those guys weren't Followers. He's working with someone, and we needed to know that too."

"I also needed to know that you're here to kill him. And that you don't care if you die in the process."

"He killed my father."

Erin stopped pedaling, and Mike stopped beside her. "You've got me mixed up with someone who gives a shit. You said there was a woman. You left her. You're not sure if there's anything to go home to, and you've stopped caring if you go home. Frankly, I don't care either. It's your life. Throw it away if you want to. But you do not take me with you, or any member of my team. As far as I'm concerned they can open whole a new circle of hell where you and Gray can gnaw on each other for eternity. But you're putting other people at risk, and you're hurting other people. Maybe you don't care about yourself. But somebody might still care. If you manage to stay alive long enough maybe you'll find that out."

Mike felt his phone vibrating against his belt. He reached for it, and looked at the screen. Ryan.

"Just a second," he said to Erin.

"Hey Ryan," he said. "Good to hear from you."

Erin shook her head in disgust and reached for her water bottle.

"How's sunny Macedonia?"

"We've actually got some storm clouds here right now," Mike said, glancing at Erin. "What have you got?"

"OK, what I found out is that Mark transferred thirty thou out of that Swiss account a few weeks ago, and put it in that Macedonian bank you gave me, with the unpronounceable name. But here's the thing. He's got another source of funding. A big one. We're watching that account now, and last week, he deposited a hundred thousand. No idea where it came from. It was cash. A series of cash deposits, actually. Different currencies, mostly dollars but some euros. Even some Sterling. He's hooked up with big money. I have no idea where it's coming from."

"OK thanks. We need to get that account frozen."

"We're working on it, but keep in mind it's a nonextradition country. Stuff takes time, and the locals might not cooperate. They're going to ask a lot of questions, and they'll demand proof that this really is Mark Gray's money. I called an old friend of mine in Washington. Dan Shelby. He's working on it."

"Well stay on it. We need to get that money frozen before he withdraws it and moves it somewhere else."

"Listen, I uh...I was up to my ass in this murder case, and I gave the job to Max. I slipped it in with some transfers for some Mob money on the case I'm working, but I'm pretty she guessed what was up. You know how she is. I should have done it myself instead of trying to put one over on her. She hasn't said anything."

"Understood. Thank you. I really appreciate this. I'm sorry about Max. I'll explain everything to her later. If we ever have a later."

"Well maybe later comes real soon. Here's hoping. You take care of yourself, OK? Watch your back."

"I will. Tell Max..." He broke off in midsentence. _Tell her what? That I love her and I'm sorry I hurt her? That I'm coming home soon maybe?_

"Tell her what?" Ryan asked.

"Never mind," Mike said. "I'll tell her the next time I see her. Take care. Hope to see you soon."

He disconnected, and stood there, aware of Erin's eyes boring into him like ice blue lasers. "OK," she said. "If we're done violating good contact procedures, orders, and basic common sense for today, I'd like to get a shower and some food." She began pedaling in the direction of Skopje.

XVII

Marta went through her flat quickly, packing a single bag with extra clothes and toiletries. She'd learned, working for Dusko how to pack fast and travel light, because sometimes you had to leave in a hurry. At the moment, she was trying to get back to the safe house as quickly as she could. She was afraid that Mark might get into some sort of trouble with another one of Zamir's men, and she was afraid of what Zamir would do if thought she was making a run for it.

She had just finished tossing her Kindle into the bag and was getting clean socks from a drawer when there was a knock at the door. She wasn't expecting anyone. Dusko would have called first. She wasn't expecting any deliveries. Her landlord? She'd complained about the dripping faucet in the bathroom. Maybe he'd sent a plumber. The knock sounded again. "Who's there?" she asked. Again, no answer. She waited a moment, and then looked out the peephole. No one. She went back, threw a few socks in the bag, and closed it up. Time to go. She went tot he door, and opened it. As she did, the door open violently inwards, and she was shoved back. She found herself facing a woman wearing a houndstooth suit jacket over a short burgundy dress. The woman was holding a boxy semiauto with a silencer screwed onto the end.

"Remember me?" the woman asked.

Marta remembered. It was the woman from the club. Eliza.

Musical Interlude - I Should Have Killed You By Deadbolt

====================Chapter Notes ========================

* Balkan history and politics are complex. Erin's statement is accurate, but a detailed explanation would be longer than this fic, and it isn't necessary. Islam has been present in the Balkans for centuries, along with Christianity. The two don't always coexist peacefully. Search engine or history books if you care.

** A sniper rifle used by the Russian army, and exported all over the world. Pictures can be seen online. It's a venomous looking weapon. It takes a ten round detachable box magazine and has an effective range of 800 meters.

*** Pronounced ahr-KAH-nuh, which is the German pronunciation of the word.

**** Russian army special forces. The name, in Russian, is short for Special Tasks.

Notes:

The shackles of a padlock are the ends of the U shaped metal rod. A shim is a small thin strip of metal with a tab. Bent into a U shape, it that can be used to open the shackles of most padlocks, although not the better ones.

Yes, you can conceal a Glock or other handgun while wearing a T shirt and shorts. I've done it lots of times. And a spare mag or two. With cargo shorts I can also find room for a flashlight, a knife, a multitool, a note pad, a ballpoint, and my phone and wallet, but that's neither here nor there. If you know what you're doing, none of this will never be noticed short of a pat down or a metal detector.

Yes, you can make your own lockpicks like Mike, using a can, a paperclip, or whatever bendable metal happens to be handy. But this is a fic, not a how to course on burglary.

And yes, if you pick a lock open and you don't want anyone to know you've been there, you have to pick it closed when you leave, something that Hollywood tends to ignore.

26


	5. Your One And Only Life

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Another long stretch between updates. Consulting the Book Of Excuses, I was quite ill for a time, but am doing much better. If all goes well, the next update should be the concluding chapter.

Chapter 5 - Your One And Only Life

"Everything old is new again."

Sloane looked over at Max, sitting in the passenger seat, as they sat at a red light on 37th Street. "I don't understand."

"That," Max said, pointing at a squeegee man wiping the windshield of a Jetta waiting at the red light on the other side of the intersection. "The squeegee guys are back."

Sloane looked at the bearded, disheveled man smearing the contents of a spray bottle across the windshield of the Jetta. "Yeah, when the squeegee guys return to New York. Sort of like when the swallows return to Capistrano, I guess. The place really is going downhill."

"And to think I passed up sunny LA for this," Max said jokingly.

"I've been to LA. It's overrated."

"Are you from California?"

"No. Ipswich, Massachusetts actually, but I was out there a few times visiting friends. Northern California's nice. The Bay Area is great, if you can afford to live there. You can keep LA."

"I'd still like to see it. Here I am back where I started."

The light changed, and Sloane moved through the intersection and past the squeegee man. "I thought you wanted to be near Ryan."

"I do."

"But? I mean, you've been kind of down since you talked to him. Something to do with Macedonia?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Ok, well...Mike's in Macedonia, hunting for Mark Gray, or Moby Dick, or whatever, and so Ryan tried to slip a Macedonian bank account in with those Mob money transfers, and hoped I wouldn't notice."

"So Mike's hunting for Moby Dick or he's being a dick?"

Max laughed out loud. "Ryan's right. You are brutal. I mean, he could have just asked me to run the trace. I wasn't going to wig or anything."

"So it's over with Mike?"

"I guess."

"Well, I mean it's over or it isn't. Do you talk? Email?"

"No."

"Then it's over. And that's why you wanted LA."

Max nodded.

"This interview isn't going to take long. The guy's gonna roll over on his hacker buddies trying to cut five years off a fifteen year sentence. We tidy up some paperwork, and by then it'll be quitting time. We'll go out to Karlino's for drinks. You can meet some people. You're not alone here, OK? You're one of us now. Chris is going to drop by."

"Chris?"

"This guy I'm seeing."

"He's in the Bureau?"

"He's an artist. You do realize that there's over eight million people in New York City, and half of them are guys. Of course by the time you subtract out the ones who are married, gay, clueless..."

"I'm not looking for anyone right now."

"Then just have some drinks. You need to get out. You don't need to move across the country to restart your life. You can do that right here, starting now."

Max paused for a moment, looking at a young man with shoulder length blonde hair wearing ragged jeans and a T shirt that revealed sleeve tats sitting on the sidewalk. He held up a piece of cardboard that said BROKEASS WHITE BOY LIVING IN THE STREET. "Be it ever so squalid," she said, "there"s no place like home. OK, you're right. I need to get out. Drinks tonight."

"Good. I'll bet Mike's not sitting around."

II

The way back to Skopje was a lot easier and faster since it was downhill. They paused by the side of the road to let an ancient farm truck loaded with what looked like bales of straw rattle past, followed shortly after by a bus. Mike looked down from the side of the ridge they were on at a row of greenhouses below. "So what do you think?" he asked Erin as the bus receded into the distance towards Skopje.

"About the money?" Erin asked. "The real question is where did he get it. Who's paying him?"

"It's family money," Mike said. "Lily must have had it."

"You don't know that. He only took thirty thousand out of that Swiss account."

"There were other accounts."

" How much was in them? The accounts you've found so far, I mean"

Mike didn't answer.

"How much?" she repeated.

"Twenty, thirty, forty thousand. I found one that had sixty thousand."

"Spread all over to avoid attracting attention, I'm sure. And then he shows up with a hundred grand."

"It was cash. Multiple deposits. It could have come from more than one account."

"I don't think so," Erin replied. "Lily worked with other people sometimes. That Huntsman guy, for example. Remember him? And there were others. We have no idea who these guys are."

"They work for Mark. He must have hired them."

"Or they hired him."

"To do what?"

"Maybe they're literary agents and he's got a book deal. Cooking with the Gray family." When Mike started to object, she interrupted. "I'm joking, OK. But a hundred thousand is no joke. That's a lot of money. I just want to know where it came from."

"So do I, but we can ask him when we get him. The money had to come from Lily. What could this guy do for anyone that's worth a hundred thousand?"

"I don't know. But I want to talk to Dusko."

"We need to work fast, and you need to call in your team. With that kind of money, he could fade out and disappear for a long time."

"We also need to be careful," Erin said, "and make sure we're not being played."

"Being played how? Are you scared?"

"Yes," she said. "And you should be too. Because fear can keep you alive."

III

Eliza held her Walther on the startled woman. 'Remember me?" she asked.

Marta nodded slowly. "Who are you?"

"Your worst nightmare. Or just maybe your only friend." She nodded at the suitcase on the couch. "Taking a trip?"

"Zamir was asking about you. He said you killed his men."

"I did. Now tell me what you and Mark Gray are doing with a scumbag like Zamir Tolka."

"His name is Luke," Marta protested.

"That was his brother. And don't lie to me. I get angry when people lie to me."

"I was trying to help him," Marta said. "I thought that I could get him money and a new identity. And that I could help him kill the man who hunts him. Mike Weston."

"How?"

"Zamir is terrorist."

"No shit."

"He's being paid by someone very big. To start a war."

IV

Dusko walked slowly up the stairs to Zamir's flat on the Ulica Bogdan Kabulska. He'd gotten a text earlier in the day from a burner phone reminding him to check his email for a copy of the contracts. It was a signal from Zamir, summoning him to an emergency meeting. He had no idea what it was about, but it couldn't possibly be good.

The door opened on the first knock. A man with curly, disheveled brown hair and a short beard ushered him inside. Dusko didn't know his name, but recognized him. Zamir sometimes used him as a driver. Zamir might talk a good line about liberation, but Dusko suspected that this fellow had been a getaway driver for a robbery crew.

Zamir was sitting at the cheap particle board desk, looking at his phone, which was plugged into a outlet close by recharging. He turned the phone's screen off and rose. "Wait outside," he said to the driver.

"What's happened?" Dusko asked, when the man had gone.

"Complications," Zamir replied. "And a change of plans. First, two of my men have been killed."

"I thought Gray only killed one man."

"I should have said two more. This time it was a woman. Someone Gray and Marta met in that club. Marta claimed that they picked the woman up with the intention of killing her. I told two of my men to dispose of her since she was a potential witness. They took her to a quarry, but she got loose and killed both of them. Whoever she was, she never went to the police about it. Marta claims she was an American named Eliza. Is it possible that Marta is selling us out?"

"What do you mean?"Dusko asked.

"This woman was a professional. The only question is who she was working for. It can't be a coincidence that she was in the club with our two love birds. Perhaps she was looking for Mark Gray. Or perhaps she was looking for me."

"That's not possible," Dusko protested. "Marta wouldn't..."

"The Americans have put a rather large price on my head. She and Gray need money. Perhaps they are looking to collect."

"But the CIA sent someone to contact Mike Weston. She used the name Amanda Kirkland."

"This woman could be working for the British, or one of the other NATO countries," Zamir said. "She could also be a private contractor. A bounty hunter."

"If she's a bounty hunter, she could be looking for Gray. The Americans have a price on his head as well, and they know he's in Skopje. Maybe someone leaked. It has to be that. She got the information from the Americans. They leak all the time, and she's hoping to collect the reward."

"There's more," Zamir replied. "I've also learned that the Americans know about Mark Gray's account at the Strumica Komercijalni bank here in Macedonia. They're in contact with the Macedonian government, and they intend to seize the account if they can persuade the government here in Skopje to go along."

"How do you know this?"

Zamir gave a humorless smile. "As you point out, the Americans sometimes have trouble keeping a secret. My principals have sources of information, both here and in America. The FBI has been in contact with Skopje. They know about the money. FBI headquarters got a call from an agent named Ryan Hardy. He may have been contacted by Mike Weston."

"What are you going to do?" Dusko asked.

"If they seize the money, Mister Gray will be upset, but that's not a major concern at this point. In fact, having no money would make it harder for him to run, which makes him easier to eliminate. But this mystery woman...I don't like it. We have to move quickly. I want you to make contact with Mike Weston directly."

"How?"

"Weston isn't traveling under an alias," Zamir explained. "You can simply go to his hotel. Or call him on his phone, the number of which I can provide."

"And tell him what?"

"That Mark Gray is leaving Skopje, and he must act quickly. So we can lure him into an ambush."

"But if I do that," Dusko protested, "I'm practically announcing to the Americans that I betrayed Weston."

"And if you don't," Zamir replied, "I will take it as proof that you and Marta have betrayed me."

"Why do we have to make direct contact with Weston?"

"Because he is obsessed with finding the man who killed his father. If the Americans know about the bank account, they may suspect that something is up. But Weston is a man with a mission. He will throw caution to the winds for a chance at getting Gray."

"Please, Zamir. You have men. Put Weston under surveillance. Stalk him, wait for the opportune moment. We'll get a chance, and I won't be exposed. Give it a little more time"

"No. We have to move quickly. Before anything else can go wrong. You will do this. Because in the end, it is safer to betray the Americans, take your money, and disappear, than to betray me. Do you know anything, about this CIA agent Weston is working with?"

"No," Dusko said. "I know all their resident people on sight, and I've never seen her before. She's someone they've brought in. Someone important, I think. I sent you a picture. It was taken when she first met Weston at the museum. I had him followed. Could she be this Eliza person you spoke of?"

"No," Zamir said. "Eliza was a brunette. You didn't have Weston and American woman followed after they left the museum?"

"No," Dusko replied. "They were meeting me later, and I was afraid my man would be noticed."

"And yet you urge me to do what you were afraid to attempt," Zamir said disgustedly. "The Americans have a word for people like you. A shitweasel."

Zamir studied Dusko as if he were weighing whether the satisfaction of killing him would be worth the disposal job. " It's up to you," he said at last. "I suppose I misjudged you. If you're afraid to go through with it, then just say so. And refund the front money I paid you, and I mean every penney of it. I'll eliminate Gray and Marta. You can give the Americans whatever explanation you like for why you didn't come through. Maybe Mike Weston will let the matter drop, or maybe it will take a while for your arm to get straightened out again. Or maybe this CIA woman will decide it would be best if you ended up at the bottom of Matka Canyon."

"All right," Dusko said. " I've burned my bridges. I'll do it Do you want me to lure him to the safe house?"

"I'm starting to wonder," Zamir said, "how you've stayed alive and in business this long. I want him brought there. I'll give you some men. Capture somewhere else, in case he tells someone where he's gone. Besides, Gray is as volatile as benzene. He can have his fun with Weston, but I don't want him getting excited at the wrong time."

V

Eliza sat in a ratty club chair upholstered with black vinyl patched with electrician's tape. Eliza stared intently at Marta, who sat across the room on the couch, keeping her covered with the Walther in case Marta got ideas. "So this all started because Zamir realized that Weston would do literally anything to get his hands on Mark Gray."

"That's right," Marta replied. "I met Mark, and as I got to know him, I realized how he'd been wronged. And I wanted to help. I worked for Dusko long before I met Mark, and when I went to him, it was because I thought he could help Mark stay ahead of the people hunting him. Mark had some money, and Dusko knew document forgers. People who could sell you a new identity. I told him that Mark could pay, and I wanted him to help so that we could be together."

"Did you tell Mark ahead of time before you raised the subject with Dusko?"

Marta hesitated just long enough to answer the question without answering.

"So you just assumed that good old Dusko would help out instead of trying to collect the reward money by ratting Mark to the FBI."

"I didn't know any other way Mark and I could be together," Marta said miserably.

"So Dusko took this to Zamir before you ever even discussed what you were planning with Mark."

Marta nodded silently.

"Out of morbid curiosity, how much were you paid up front for getting Mark into this?"

'I got twenty thousand dollars at first. Twenty more after Dusko met with Zamir and Zamir approved the plan."

"So forty K for you, a hundred for Mark, and of course Dusko had to wet his beak. Who's paying for all this?"

"Only Zamir knows that."

"So Mike Weston goes into the bag and then what?"

"He will die in a torture video, after confessing to being involved in a plan to kidnap Gray and others from Macedonia, a country which has no extradition treaty with the United States."

"Others?"

"Yes. It's a false flag operation. * Zamir's men will be disguised as Islamist terrorists. They'll have masks, black flags and other props. They're going to pin this on the Muslimss. The claim will be that the US was planning to kidnap suspected jihadists from Macedonia without a warrant, or even filing formal charges. And Zamir's men will conduct other strikes that will be blamed on Muslim terrorists. The plan is to incite religious and ethnic killing. It probably won't take much. And America will come in for blame as well. They'll have been caught at illegal kidnaps and renditions. They'll come in for blame when the killing starts. And Americans will become targets as well. Mike Weston's obsession will lead him into a trap, and his death will help light the fuse on the bomb that Zamir is planting."

Eliza thought over what she'd just been told. The plan was insane, but maybe just insane enough to work. The FBI tries to grab Mark Gray in a nonextradition country and gets caught at it. A nonextradition country with a sizable Muslim population. That serves to support the claim that the Americans are in town, doing renditions. So do some false flag attacks, blame them on Muslims, and claim the Americans are grabbing Muslims off the streets. Muslims who haven't done a damn thing. Maybe even snatch or hit few of those very same Muslims yourself.

She'd always doubted the wisdom of renditions, but that hadn't kept her from accepting money from the CIA for her company, ZR, to do a few of them. The customer is always right, after all.

"How will they take Mike Weston?"

"Dusko will give them the location of a safe house, if he hasn't already. Mark will be moved about some, so that he can be seen, and Weston can confirm his presence. In the meantime, Weston will be targeted himself. He isn't disguised, and he's traveling under his own name. They'll pick a time and a place, and take him."

"And after," Eliza said, " you and Mark will go away to some warm and friendly place with all the money you've made, and live happily ever after, because they're just going to let you walk away when all this is done. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but wishful thinking is not a plan. Whoever's behind this isn't planning to leave any witnesses."

"I know," Marta nodded miserably. "But they've got us."

"No. They don't. You say Zamir is planning to start a war. Well, he already has started a war. With me."

"Who are you?" Marta asked. "Who do you work for?"

"Dr Arthur Strauss sent me. To bring Mark home, so that he and the Doctor can have their vengeance. On Mike Weston, on Ryan Hardy, and on Ryan Hardy's niece."

"Arthur Strauss is in jail."

"Yes, he is. And yet here I am, helping to carry out his plan. And that should tell you everything you need to know about his reach and his power. His students and his Followers have shown what they can do. Doctor Strauss has not been convicted, and he never will be. Because with Mark's help, and yours, he can walk out of that courtroom a free man, and strike down his enemies, and make examples of Ryan Hardy and everyone he cares about. I know you, Marta. I was you, once. I came all this way because Doctor Strauss' emissary came to me, and told me that he needed my help, and I answered his call. We will set him free. Help us, and you and Mark can be free of all of this. Help us, and you can be what you were meant to be. A predator, and not a pawn. I know it's hard to trust, and I know it seems like a lot to ask. They offered you money. I'm offering the chance to be the person you want to be."

She unscrewed the silencer from the end of her Walther and put it in her pocket. She put the pistol back in its shoulder holster, and stood.

"It's your decision, and I'll respect it. If the answer is no, then I understand. I'll leave you alone. You can even tell them about me. I'm not afraid of them. I don't need to be, and I don't want you putting yourself at risk for me unless you really want to. I won't lie to you. This won't be safe or easy. But if I didn't think it could be done, I wouldn't be here."

Marta practically leaped off the couch, ran to Eliza, and threw her arms around her. "It's OK," Eliza said, as she held the sobbing woman in her arms. "It's gonna be OK. Now tell me everything you can about this safe house, and Zamir and his men."

VI

They turned in their bikes in at the hotel. Rachit, who was still working, asked about their trip. Erin described, in glowing terms, the the scenic beauty of Matka Canyon. Rachit was pretty talkative, since he was about to leave for the day and turn things over Mrs Breznika, who ran the hotel along with her husband. While Rachit and Erin talked about bike trips, Mike turned the bikes in to Mrs. Breznika. He found himself trying to guess her age. Her husband had been manning the desk when he had checked in. At first he thought she was a lot younger than her husband, but looking at her, he realized that she was probably in her early forties. But with her high cheekbones, dark eyes, and long black hair tied back in a braid, she was more beautiful than most women manage to be in their twenties.

"You wanted some food," Mike said, as they walked away from the desk.

"Yeah, but let's go to your room for a second first."

"Sure."

With the door closed behind them, Erin stood for a moment, composing her thoughts.

"I want to help you," she said. "I know this is important to you, and I want to get this guy. The information about the bank account is useful, and I appreciate the fact that you took the lead in getting it. But I need to know that I can trust you."

"You can. I'm sorry about...what I did. I know it was wrong. I"ve never been so close to getting Mark. And if I can get him, I can go home."

"You can go home now," she said. "There's nothing stopping you."

"No. Not with Mark still out there. Are you going to call in your team on that safe house?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, "the original tip about Gray came from Marta Pandev , but she never said anything about him working with anyone. So there's three possibilities. She didn't know about those guys, or they showed up after her last contact with Dusko, or this is some kind of a setup."

" I've been hunting him for months. I'm this close, and if you would just make the call..."

"Mike," she interrupted. "He's hunting you. Don't ever forget that. The Grays, Joe Caroll, Strauss, all the people you hunted. They hunted you back. That hasn't changed. Mark's not alone, we know that now. And even if he was...he's still a hunter and a killer. He's hunting you right now. The fact that you got most of the Gray family doesn't change anything. The fact that Strauss and Joe Caroll are in jail doesn't change anything. He's still hunting you. All the time. And if you ever forget that, if you ever let down your guard, then suddenly he'll be there. And you won't even see it coming."

"I have a feeling you know a lot about hunting," Mike said, smiling.

"Damn right. You know, among lions, it's the females who do most of the hunting."

"So what do the males do?"

"They spray to mark their territory. Also they fight hyenas, and they help make little lions."

"Are there any hyenas in Skopje?" Mike asked.

"If I see one, I'll let you know. Come on, I'm hungry. Later, I'll try to set up a meet with Dusko."

"I want to be there," Mike said.

"You will be. I'll leave a mark for him at a place we've agreed. I'll text you. 'Drinks at Distrikt 14. One hour.' That means you should meet me at the statue of Alexander The Great downtown in two hours. We'll go on to meet Dusko from there."

VII

After lunch in a café near Mike's hotel, Erin stopped and left the mark she had promised, a piece of tape on a lamppost, and returned to the safe house on the Ulica Dusko Popov. She went to the safe where she'd kept the gun she'd issued to Mike. She opened it and took out a tablet computer. It was a prominent name brand that you could buy in a store or online, but it had been modified to have certain special functions courtesy of the Agency's Technical Services Division.

She sat down on the living room couch and turned on the computer. When the screen came up she launched a hidden program that showed a login screen. She put in the required username and password and a keypad appeared. She began composing a message. When she was done, she hit Send. Her message would be encrypted and transmitted in a short burst of less than a second, making detection and direction finding of her location by an enemy impossible. She logged off, shut down the computer, and returned it to the safe.

She went to take a shower. Afterwards, she slipped into a robe, went back to the safe, and removed the tablet. She booted it up, launched the hidden program, and logged back in. She checked for new messages, and found one informing her that her request had been approved, and was being acted on. She smiled, returned the tablet to the hidden safe, and went to find something to wear.

VIII

"So the number of men at the safe house varies?" Eliza asked.

"Yes. There's normally at least two minders, but sometimes there are a lot more. I don't know how many men Zamir has all told." Marta replied.

"How much time do you think we have before they take Mike Weston?"

"It will be very soon I think. I believe they were expecting to move on him in a week or so, but Zamir is paranoid now that you have killed his men. He'll want to move quickly.".

"You don't have a key to the safe house?"

"No."

"And they don't let you have a cell phone while you're there?"

"No. They'll take my phone so that it can't be used to track my location, and I can't call for help."

"So it has to be tonight, then. Where does Mark sleep?"

"Upstairs. The room is in the back of the house."

"OK. If Mark is in the house, then leave the light on in your bedroom, and the curtain open. Prop that," she said, pointing at Marta's Kindle "in the bedroom window, so that I know, when I come through the door, that Mark is there. Don't tell Mark that we're coming. Not until we actually hit the place."

"And after? What about passports?"

"'I've got that covered," Eliza said. "Mark will have a French passport waiting for him. It'll just be a matter of adding a photograph. I can arrange one for you. I'm not sure yet what the nationality will be, but we have people we can go to when we need papers on short notice. I've got our escape route planned. We'll drive across the border to a country where I have contacts. You don't need to know which one yet. From there we go by plane to the States. Now you understand that there's no baggage because there's no time. You're leaving everything behind and starting a new life. Understand?"

"I understand. And thank you."

"You better grab that bag and go," Eliza said. "Don't keep them waiting. You leave first, and that way, if they're watching this place, they'll see you, and follow you. I'll let myself out after you've gone."

IX

There wasn't much to do except wait for Erin to text, and Mike was at loose ends. He'd eaten, and he sat alone in his hotel room, pacing the afternoon away, checking his phone repeatedly, and going over the morning's events.

By now, Erin had guessed that he had no intention of bringing Mark back alive. So she might decide to call in her team on the safe house and try to take Mark without him. She could be on whatever the hell piece of spy tech she used to communicate with her bosses telling them that he should be yanked out of the field. She could be sending a message to the Bureau that she wouldn't work with him anymore now that he had shown he was willing to disregard orders. He cursed himself for pulling that break in. What had he expected to find?

Maybe something about the men he'd seen with Mark. Followers? Mark had apparently attracted Marta Pandev to him before whatever happened to her happened. Maybe he had attracted other followers as well. Even if Marta could be trusted, even if she was still alive, the fact was that if Joe could have a cult around him, if Lily Gray could operate her own serial killer family, how far could it go? The Bureau had always been used to thinking of serial killers as lone wolves. But there had been a cult. There had been a family. What else could there be? Some sort of organization?

 _Knock off the paranoia. Gray's a fugitive with money. Take away the money and he's a fugitive who's broke with no way to keep running._

So what could he do? Could he go back to the safe house, break in alone, and do the job himself? He could kill Mark, and tell the Bureau that he'd been shot resisting. If they asked him why he didn't tell Erin, he could say that he was afraid that Erin wasn't going to make the call in time. Could he get away with it? Ryan probably could, he thought sourly. In career terms the man had nine lives minus the seven or eight he'd used up already. OK, so that was an option but it was the option of last resort.

Looking back, he was ashamed of even asking Erin if she was afraid.. She wasn't likely to be afraid of Mark or much of anything else. But she wasn't in the FBI. She was spy. She said she knew a lot about hunting, but there was another side to that coin. She was also used to being hunted. If she got caught, she was looking at prison or worse. So naturally she'd be careful. And she wasn't Ryan or Max. If one of them had been with him at the safe house, they'd have ambushed Mark when he came back.

The thought of Max practically hurt. He'd missed her every day he'd been gone, and he'd hated himself for hurting her. If she were here, she would have given him seven different kinds of hell for risking the break in. But she would have gone along, if only to watch his back. And if she were here, he wouldn't be alone all the time. So why not call her? Because he'd hurt her? No, it wasn't just that. It was, he realized, because deep inside, he didn't think he deserved her.

His phone rang. He looked down, suddenly aware that he'd been holding it in his hand as he thought of Max. Had he been about to call her? He stared dumbly at the phone, seeing a completely unfamiliar number. Erin?

"Hello?" he said cautiously.

"Mr Weston," a familiar voice said. "It's Dusko Ivanovich. Do you remember me?"

"Yes. I remember. How did you get this number?"

"I have my sources. I'm calling you because there has been a change of plans. Our mutual friend is leaving town on short notice. I know you were looking forward to meeting him, but apparently he has urgent business far away."

"I'm very sorry to hear it," Mike replied. "When is he leaving?"

"Tonight, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to say that your business partner is simply taking too long, and that our chance to close the deal is slipping away. Should that happen, I won't get the payment I was counting on. I was wondering if there was any chance of us getting together on short notice. I should very much like to salvage this deal."

"I'd like that too. Where and when?"

"There is a bar on the Ulica Smernenski. It's called Svercuvani."

"Spell it."

Dusko spelled the word while Mike wrote it down. "The word means bootleg," he explained.

"Well that figures," Mike said, thinking about Erin's remark that they were all criminals. "I'm on the way."

He hung up and got his Glock off the tiny nightstand. He stopped for a moment, and thought about what Erin had said. Could it be a setup? Maybe. But he knew Mark was here, and Dusko had to want the reward money. He stuffed the Glock in its holster into his waistband, pulled his shirt down to cover it, and headed out the door.

X

When one of Zamir's men opened the door to let Marta into the safe house with her small suitcase of clothes and toiletries in hand, the first thing she noticed was the smell of spices. She knew Mark was cooking again, because Zamir's guys tended to live on some combination of takeout and junk food. She went upstairs to put her suitcase and belongings away and heard Mark's voice coming from the bathroom.

"You would have been proud of me. They ruined dinner, so I ruined their whole night. I went out today with a couple of different guys, and we ran some errands. Mostly they wanted me moving around because the rat needs to see the cheese. But we also went to the market and I got some stew beef and chiles, and so it's beef vindaloo tonight. And you know something? They didn't bother me not one single time. I mean, they stayed out of the kitchen. Gave it a wide berth.

"But I have to tell you that for everything that's happened, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. Travel is broadening. I mean, you get to see the world, meet all kinds of different people. Once in a while, you have to kill some them, but that's just how it is, you know? And that's good too. Because you can look back and say that you killed all over the world. It's a good feeling. You learn that people speak different languages, have different customs, different religious beliefs. But you know something? It doesn't matter. Because we all bleed the same color. Blood's red, everywhere you go."

She tapped lightly on the bathroom door. "I'm back."

The door opened a moment later, and she found herself facing Mark, a towel arapped around his hips and his face half covered with shaving cream. His hair was damp and slicked back. The bathroom was steamy inside, and spot in the fogged up mirror had been wiped clean enough to show a hazy reflection. A folded up straight razor sat on the bathroom counter. "Hey," he said cheerfully. "Come on in. You're letting the warm air out."

She stepped inside. "Who were you talking to?" she asked.

"I was just telling Luke about my day. We're having beef vindaloo tonight. And those assholes left me alone while I was cooking this time. It'll be done in another hour."

She looked around uncertainly. Luke couldn't possibly be here, but there was nothing to be gained by pointing that out. She watched as he unfolded the razor, and began stropping it on the leather strap hanging from the wall. She stared as he did, partly out of awe at his skill with the razor, and partly because the sight of him in a towel was mad hot.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Never seen a man shave before?"

"Not with one of those, no."

'It's easy. So you're just gonna watch me shave?"

"Actually," she grinned, "I'm just waiting to see if your lips drop off in the sink. And I like looking at handsome men."

He ran the razor over his face in short, precise strokes. "Maybe I'll shave your legs with it sometime."

"If you get through this without a trip to the emergency room, I'll think about it." As the lather gradually disappeared, revealing his face beneath, she thought about what Eliza had said. _No secrets. Not from him. And we're alone, for a moment._

She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "I like you clean shaven. You have a perfect face.. I'm sorry you've had to hide it." She leaned in closer, not quite touching him, much as she wanted to. "We're alone, so I can tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"The woman from the club. She survived, and came to see me. She works for Arthur Strauss."

Mark's hand stopped in mid stroke. He placed the razor back on the counter carefully, and faced her. "Dr Arthur Strauss?"

"Somehow he has found you, and sent people to bring you back to America. To help him get his revenge. On Ryan Hardy. On Weston. On Max. They are coming for us very soon. And when they come, I think they'll need your help."

Mark turned to face the mirror. "Did you hear that?" he asked his reflection. "We're going home. And we're going to kill them all."

He took a towel and wiped the remaining lather from his face. The lather, and maybe, Marta thought, tears of joy.

XI

Eliza used the bed in Juliana's hotel room as a conference table. An open laptop sat on it, along with a diagram of the area around the safe house where Mark was staying.

"Ok, Eliza said, "Juliana, you'll stay in the car with Stinnes. When we get the love birds into the car, you'll introduce yourself as the personal representative of Dr Strauss. I work for you, I'm just one of your mooks. It's bad enough that they saw my face, but they don't need to know I'm in charge. Now the plan is that when we leave, the group breaks up. Stinnes and Kaminsky will take them over the Bulgarian border by car. I'll call and have papers arranged for Marta. When they have their papers, they'll be given some money and plane tickets. They come back alone, separate from Stinnes and Kaminsky. You'll meet them when they land in the States. It'll be in Boston. I'll go over the instructions you'll give them. We'll arrange the flight to coincide with a time when you can meet them. These two," she gestured at Stinnes and Kaminsky, "come back on a different flight. I don't want Customs seeing them with Gray and Pandev. Now we have to take two cars. I'll go with Kaminsky, and you two will hang back until after we get in position.

"You'll pack your stuff and put it in the trunks. We aren't coming back here. We'll meet at that place where I bought the second batch of weapons from Dragon. I've cleared it with him. We'll count noses there, and if anyone is hurt, we'll do some quick first aid, hopefully enough to last until we make it over the border. I can arrange medical care there if it comes to that." She saw Juliana looking at her with a combination of shock and alarm. "What?" she asked sharply.

"Medical care?" Juliana asked.

"I plan for everything," Eliza said. "Just remember that you can tell how scared you have a right to be by looking at me. If I look scared, then you have a right to be."

"Does anything scare you?" Juliana asked.

"I didn't say I was never afraid," Eliza replied. "Just play your part. We'll do the hard stuff. And after, you'll have...Arthur, and I'll have what I want. Doctor Strauss will have his revenge, and so will Mark. Just make it through this, and it's gravy. Win win all around. For everyone except Ryan Hardy and his crew."

XII

Mike took a cab to a spot a couple of blocks from Svercuvani and walked the rest of the way. He wanted to approach on foot, cautiously, and see if anyone or anything looked like a setup. He'd considered calling Erin for backup, but before he did, he wanted to size Dusko up for himself. The street was narrow, with brick sidewalks, and buildings of five or six stories on either side. The ground floors were small shops, but the upper stories were mostly apartments. Ahead on the left was a red awning sheltering a few small outside tables. At one of the tables, three men were sitting and drinking. That must be the bar, although there was no sign outside. Above it was a sign in English on a second story window that said Beauty Parlor. A balcony above that was being used by someone to hang laundry.

The red awning was at the right hand corner of the building. Next to it, Mike noted, was an alley that sloped sharply downhill to a basement delivery entrance. He'd keep that in mind as a possible escape route in case this turned out to be some sort of trap. The three men at the outside table were having an animated conversation and didn't seem to be paying him any attention. One of them was wearing an orange safety vest. He might have been a construction worker froma site down the street enjoying a drink after work. No one seemed to be watching the entrance. A few cars were parked along the side of the street, but none seemed to be occupied. Several bikes were parked nearby. More bikes than cars, actually. No sign of surveillance so far. He stepped into the bar.

Dusko was sitting in a booth near the back, a mostly empty glass of beer in front of him, along with an open magazine. He was wearing a charcoal suit jacket and pants, and a light blue shirt with no tie. He might have just come from an office cubicle somewhere and stopped for a drink after work.

Dusko looked up from his magazine, glanced at Mike, and returned to his reading. Mike sat down across from him, and Dusko looked up again. "The Economist," he explained, tapping the magazine with the index finger of his right hand. "I was just reading an article about the need for companies to be nimble. So many opportunities for deals are lost because decisions cannot be made in time."

"I've made my decision," Mike said. "This deal is going down. Tell me what happened."

"Gray's been tipped off. Apparently your government has been in contact with the government here in Skopje about a bank account belonging to Mark Gray at the Strumica Komercijalni. Someone apparently told Gray. You must understand, Mr Weston, that we have problems here with corruption. Gray may have a source at the bank. Or even the government. He has money, and people can be bought. When he learned about the plans to seize the account, he began making preparations for departure."

"Who told you this?"

"Marta Pandev. She's alive."

"Why isn't she here?"

"Why do you think? Gray suspects everyone."

"But she's still alive."

"Yes, but she can't get away long enough to be here in person. She contacted me during a brief trip out."

"Gray's working with some guys. I saw them. Who are they? And what was going on that safe house?"

"As I told you," Dusko replied, "Gray has developed contacts in Skopje's criminal underworld. And he's recruiting what you would call followers."

"Is Marta one of them?

"I honestly don't know."

"But you're passing along information she gives you."

"Mr Weston, I need the money. If Gray escapes, your government will pay me nothing. They've paid me little enough as it is, and I'm risking my life. Mark Gray is worth a lot of money to me, and I don't think Ms Kirkland will act in time. This is just another job to her. I think it's more than that to you. And to me as well. I've had business losses. I need the money. And that's why you can trust me."

"Is he still at that safe house?"

"No. Once he learned the FBI was on to the bank account he moved, since he didn't know what else they might be on to. But he's still in Skopje. I've got an address. There's a place off the Ulica 814. It's called Metalski Boro Nakov. It used to be a valve manufacturing plant. Gray is there. I can help you get him. But you must give me your word that you'll go to the FBI and see that I'm paid the reward money they offered. If I'm going to put my one and only life on the line to catch this animal, then there has to be money in it."

"You'll get half," Mike said. "If Marta's alive, then she's getting half. Because she's taking a huge risk. It's not just your one and only life. It's hers too."

"I will compensate her when the reward is paid," Dusko replied. "She works for me."

"This is nonnegotiable," Mike said. "Half. Take it or leave it."

Dusko stared at Mike for a moment, considering his options. "All right, Mr Weston. Half. My car is down the street."

Dusko left some money on the table and they walked out, passing the men at the outside table and heading down the street to a silver Peugeot 508. Dusko got behind the wheel, and opened the glove compartment, removing a blued SIG P230. He stuck it, Mexican style, into the waistband of his pants, started the motor, and headed down the narrow empty street.

XIII

Zamir sat in the passenger seat while Ratko, his driver, took them to the safe house. Zamir watched the darkened countryside around them pass by while Ratko listened to music on a phone plugged into the aux port. Something or other in the hard rock line that Zamir didn't recognize. Normally he didn't mind Ratko's taste in music, but this wasn't exactly a normal evening. "Turn that off," he said.

Ratko hit the off button on the dash. "Sorry," he said.

"I'll be happier when Dusko actually brings Weston in."

'He will. Don't worry, the guys you sent are good. All Dusko has to do is get Weston there."

"I wish we could have done this without involving Gray, but this was the easiest way to catch the Americans out in something. Dangle the object of Weston's obsession in front of him."

"Most certainly," Ratko said. "But I wonder. Weston happened very conveniently for us. How could they have known ahead of time that the FBI would send Weston? Or did they? Or did they arrange for him to be sent?"

"I don't know," Zamir replied. "And if I did I'm sure I couldn't tell you. And It would not occur to me to ask, because such questions are dangerous."

Ratko turned into the driveway of the safe house and pulled up in front of the garage, He pressed a button on a remote clipped to the sun visor and the door began to open. He pulled inside and killed the engine. Zamir got out and turned toward the open garage door facing the house, and stopped, staring.

Ratko began walking towards a glowing red button on the wall that operated the garage door. As he was about to press it, Zamir held up his hand. "Wait."

"What's wrong?" Ratko asked. Zamir made no reply, and stood staring at the house. He walked forward, stepping just outside the garage, looking at the back of the house.

"What is it?" Ratko asked. Zamir held up his hand for silence, and then motioned Ratko over. "Look at that," he said. You see the upstairs window?" The curtain's open, and the light's on."

"So?"

"So most women close the curtain for privacy. And there's something there. A digital antenna? Or a laptop perhaps?"

He continued to stare for a moment, and then turned and walked back into the garage. "In here," he said to Ratko. "And close the door."

Ratko moved to obey while Zamir fished out his phone. He placed a call one of the men in the house. "I'm back.," he said. "I'll be in the house in a few minutes. Did Marta go out today?"

"Yes."

"Did she take her car?"

"Sure, but she brought it back. It's in the garage."

"So I see. She's there now?"

"Sure. They both are. What's going on?"

"Probably nothing. Just wait until I get in, and don't mention that I called."

"What's this all about?" Ratko asked.

"It's that bedroom window. Like a signal. Marta met Mark Gray in a club the night Gray killed Petar. There was a woman.. Marta said they picked her up, and that Gray planned to kill her. The woman was a professional. But if it wasn't a coincidence, how did she know where to find them?"

Ratko shook his head dumbly.

"I am a fool," Zamir said at last. "You used to steal cars did you not?"

"Among other things."

"So you can hot wire them."

"Of course."

"Hot wire hers. Don't start it, just turn the ignition on. I want to listen to the radio."

Ratko got some tools out of the trunk of the car he had been driving and went to work. Within minutes he had the car doors open and the ignition on. Zamir got into the driver's seat, turned on the radio, and began searching through the AM radio stations. "What are you doing?" Ratko asked.

"Quiet," Zamir said angrily. He turned the knob slowly, advancing through the AM frequencies until he found a setting that returned mostly static, with only the occasional faint sound of some distant station that was far out of range. He sat and listened intently. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

"A ticking sound."

A few seconds passed, and comprehension dawned on Ratko's face as he too heard the sound. A faint regular ticking, clearly audible against the background static.

"A signal," Zamir said. "This car has been fitted with a tracker bug."

XIV

Marta sat at the dining room table, watching Mark open a chilled bottle of wine. The beef vindaloo, sitting in a heavy covered pot on top of the stove smelled delicious. Mark had never cooked for her before, and she was beginning to understand that she'd been missing out. The rice was yellow from the spices he'd added. She thought she recognized the scent of ground coriander. The salad was fresh, with an oil based dressing. She wondered if he'd made the dressing himself.

Mark was chipper, and had actually put on a suit and tie. Marta wished she'd brought something a little dressier from her flat, but she'd packed hurriedly. She wore loose white pants, a bohemian top with a scooped neck and floral pattern, and flat heeled sandals. Mark was talking about how the other men had stayed the hell out of the kitchen and couldn't have any. It was hard to tell if he was prouder of his cooking or having intimidated Zamir's thugs into giving him a wide berth while he was cooking. He was, she realized, excited about going home.

Mark spooned beef vindaloo on top of a helping of rice, and put it in front of Marta along with the side salad and a small triangle of pita bread. She took a sip of her wine, a beautiful cabernet sauvignon.

Mark prepared a plate for himself and sat down across the table from her. He lifted his wine glass. "To the future," he said. "Because we have one."

"I doubt that very much, Mr Gray." Zamir strode into the room with Ratko and three other men behind him. "This is the second time you have disappointed me. It will be the last."

Ratko moved to stand behind Marta, while two other hoods drew pistols, and stood covering Mark. "What is this?" Mark demanded.

"You've betrayed me, both of you. Zamir replied. "I had come to tell you that Mike Weston will be delivered here shortly. Instead I have to ask you, Marta who you've been in contact with, and who has been tracking your car. And I assure you that you're going to tell me."

XV

Every city in the world has to have the bad part that it's best to stay out of, and Mike realized that Dusko was driving him into that part of Skopje. The street was narrow, and lined with what looked like hedges. On closer examination, Mike realized, it was weeds and vegetation growing up around a chain link fence that never got cut back. There were small crackerbox sized houses, many in poor condition. One looked like it had been hit with a wrecking ball. Ahead were what looked like Quonset huts on either side of the road and parallel to it, covered with a combination of rust and graffiti. Dusko pulled over and stopped.

"It's up ahead," he explained. This is mostly disused"

"Mostly?"

"There can be the homeless. The drunk. There can be local gangs. Squatters move in here sometimes. That's likely why he picked it. No paper trail while he arranges documents for his escape route. He's in one of these metal buildings ahead. It's the one on the right. He's set up a safe house inside. It's temporary. Until he leaves."

"Anyone with him?" Mike asked. "Besides Marta. I saw guys earlier. And you said something about followers."

"There could be a couple of men. Look, if you want him, if you want to help Marta, if you want to get him before he escapes, that's where he is. They've a living area fixed up inside. The windows are blacked out."

Mike looked at the metal buildings ahead. The street was poorly lit. he could hear a dog barking in the distance. He thought about what Erin had said, that Mark was hunting him. All the more reason then, to end this here. "How many entrances?"

"Two," Dusko replied. "One at each end."

"Take the door on the near side. Cover it. Don't let him come out. I'll kick in the door on the far side. Come in when you hear me."

"Right." Dusko started to walk towards the building, but Mike took hold of his sleeve and stopped him. "What?" Dusko asked.

'Be careful with that piece. If Marta were to take a stray round you might have trouble collecting that money. Understand?"

Dusko looked at him for moment with venom in his eyes. "I understand," he said.

"Good. Let's go."

Mike started down the street, Dusko peeling off and heading to his right. Mike stayed close to the fence on the left side of the road. The street was poorly lit, and he wated to keep some distance from the building until he got to the far side entrance. Someone might be looking out, and Mark knew him on sight. He wished he'd brought a hoodie or something help disguise his appearance.

He should have stopped to plan this better. As he passed the end of the building, he thought about Erin. She'd say that he shouldn't go through that door alone. Someone should have his back in case of an ambush. And she'd be right. He'd feel better if were here, and yet...

 _The bastard killed my father. I'll be the one who kills him._

He rounded the corner of the building. He cautiously crossed the road, drew his Glock, and walked past the door. He peered around the far corner of the building and looked along it;s curving side towards the far end. No one was there. He didn't see Dusko. Of course he didn't, because he was covering the other door. Get a grip, Weston. Go through that door, and this is over.

The door was wood, with the word SEXY spray painted on it in white, along with some Cyrillic graffiti in red. Mike kicked the door hard just to the left fo the S in sexy, and found himself in a pitch black room. The little bit of light that came throught he door revealed some empty shelves on the far wall along couple of sawhorses and a wheelbarrow. There was a door on the far wall, but before he could reach it a blow to the back of his head sent him pitching forward and his face hit the floor hard. The room, which had been dark, was lit by the colored stars that swam before his eyes. But the stars didn't illuminate anything, they just made it impossible to see anything else.

XVI

Mike felt himself being hauled up by two sets of hands holding onto his arms from behind. He tried to struggle, but whoever they were, but he was too weak and dazed. Or maybe they were as strong as gorillas. Or maybe they were gorillas. His felt his wrists being held together behind his back. Zip ties.

He could vaguely see someone in the gloom, standing in front of him. His vision was starting to clear a bit, and tried to focus on the face before him to see if it really was a gorilla. Nope, not a gorilla. It was Dusko.

"Something you should have remembered, Mr Weston. You may be an FBI agent, but you're only above the law in America. You can break whatever rules you like in America. You can even execute people without a trial in America. Because you're the FBI. Here, however... Do you have any idea how much the rest of the world resents Americans placing themselves above the law? I'm sure Mark Gray is an evil man, and I have no doubt that he wronged you. But you are not above the law."

"I don't exactly get the feeling," Mike said, "that you're about to read me my rights and give me my phone call."

"I'm not. Actually, I'm about to hand you over to Mark Gray. Do you believe in God, Mr Weston? You'll be praying to him very soon. You'll be praying to him for death."

Musical Interlude - Destroy by The Dreaming

======================== Chapter Notes =============================

*False Flags and Renditions

I've said before that I don't do political messages in my fanfics, ever, and I've also said that no one should try to infer anything about my personal political beliefs based on anything I put in a fanfic. The events of this fic are an attempt to fill in a gap in the canon, and not an attempt for me to get up on a soap box and do politics. Because the story takes place overseas, it was useful to bring in some real world issues,, but they are used for storytelling, and not political purposes.

False flag operations are operations that are disguised so as to point the blame for the operation at some innocent third party. They're real, and they happen. But it is a sad fact that in the world we live in, almost any act of terrorism or any especially shocking crime will accompanied by assorted internet trolls and whack jobs explaining how it was really a false flag, and laying out some bogus conspiracy theory. False flags are occasional but real. False claims of false flags are a constant.

Remember two things. When you hear hooves, you should probably think horses and not zebras. And remember the words of Dr Carl Sagan. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof.

Rendition is the practice of capturing a suspected terrorist or criminal, and instead of trying them, moving them secretly to another country with more lax regulations regarding the humane treatment of prisoners. This allows them to be subjected to a much harsher interrogation than would be the case if the country who captured them kept them itself.

Regarding kidnaps and renditions, it is a fact that America has sometimes grabbed suspects (Usually for terrorism) without a lot of regard for due process. There are reasons why America has done this, and some of them are good ones, but the matter is controversial, and the practice has produced both real resentment and the occasional diplomatic incident.

Tracker Bugs and AM Radio:

A tracker bug is nothing but a radio transmitter sending out a signal that can be located by someone receiving it. Not all trackers produce AM radio interference, but all trackers must send out a signal, and there's always a chance of the wrong person picking it up.

25


	6. The Doghouse Has A Beautiful View

"Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

So here we are at the conclusion, after the previous chapter ended in kind of a double cliffhanger.

I'm putting this up as a last chapter and a short epilogue. Chapter notes are included if anyone cares. For now, thanks to everyone for reading, and remember that feedback, positive or negative is always welcome.

Chapter 6 - The Doghouse Has A Beautiful View

Happy Hour at Karlino's ran from three to eight, which was actually more than an hour, but with a dollar off all drafts it made for way more happiness than could be contained in just one hour. The place was close enough to the Manhattan Detention Complex that half the shops at street level were bail bondsmen, although there was an acupuncture clinic next door and a Vietnamese restaurant across the street. Sloan and Max weren't lucky enough to grab one of the few spaces in the nearby lot, so they had to settle for a walk from the deck on Hester Street.

They grabbed a couple of seats near the end of the bar. Sloane ordered a Margarita. Max asked the bartender, a stick thin young man with sleeve tats, piercings in both ears, and nerd glasses, for a vodka gimlet.

"Fresh squeezed lime juice or Rose's?" he asked.

"Fresh squeezed, please," Max replied. "I can't stand the taste of corn syrup," Max said to Sloane as the bartender reached for a bottle vodka from the shelf behind him.

"Me neither," Sloane answered, scanning the room.

"Looking for someone?" Max asked.

"Chris. He should be here soon." She looked over towards the door, and her face brightened at the appearance of a slender man with dark, spiky hair and few days growth of stubble wearing an untucked linen shirt and jeans. Sloane motioned him over, and greeted him with a hug. "This is Chris Miner. Chris, this is Max Hardy. We're working together now."

"Max Hardy the detective?" Chris asked.

"Guilty," Max replied. "But I'm not a detective any more. I just joined the Bureau. I started today."

"Sounds like a promotion," Chris said, smiling. 'Congratulations". Chris, Max decided, had a very nice smile.

"Thanks," Max said. "Yeah, it's a promotion. Actually my Lieutenant in the Intel Division said it would improve the Bureau and the NYPD."

"I'm sure he was joking."

"I don't know, he looked pretty serious when he said it. I hear you're an artist."

"I paint. Right now, I'm actually helping with set decoration in a theater." He turned to the bartender. "An old fashioned."

"Sloane!"

Max turned to see a woman in a dark pantsuit with short, strawberry blonde hair and freckles who introduced herself as Amy Hendricks.

"Come join us," the blonde said. "We've got a table over there."

"Sure," Sloane replied. "Come on, both of you. Time to meet some of the crew. "

A couple of tables had been pushed together at the far wall. A heavyset man with a blond moustache was making an emphatic point about what, exactly, he had told those assholes in personnel. Next to him sat a second man with sandy brown hair who seemed to have heard it all before. He was ignoring the other man and looking at Max. Maybe he thought she was attractive, or maybe he just wished someone would get the blond haired man to shut up.

"Introductions all around," Sloane said. "This is John DiPaulo," she said, indicating the blond man, who had paused for a moment at Max and Sloane's arrival. Sloane pointed to the other man. "And Gary Burnworth. Everyone, this is Chris Miner, and Max Hardy."

"Nice to meet you," Gary said. "Ryan shows up here sometimes, but I think he's working tonight."

"Shows up here?" Max asked, surprised.

"Yeah, Jermain Waller comes with him. He's in recovery too. They have each other's backs, so to speak."

"So how did you get posted here?" John asked.

"I requested it."

"So Ryan's going to reassemble his team, then?"

"Mike's overseas, still," Max explained.

"He's not coming home?"

"Not any time soon," Max said. The drinks arrived, and Max took a rather large sip of hers.

"I thought that the two of you were...you know" John said. He polished off the little bit of the light brown liquid left in his glass and turned to the waitress. "I'll have another," he said.

"No," Max shook her head. "It's complicated."

"My God, he left you?" Amy asked. "I am so sorry."

"Thanks. I thought maybe he'd come back or call, or whatever. But it's been a long time, and...I don't know."

"I know it sucks," Amy said

"I'm surprised they assigned you here," John said.

"Why?" Sloane asked sharply. "She was outstanding at Quantico."

"Oh, well...I just thought that given, you know, all the stuff that happened..." He let the thought trail off.

Gary, safely out of John's field of view, rolled his eyes. "Looking to the future," he interjected, "you're working with Sloane and not Ryan."

"I did some stuff for Ryan this morning," Max replied. "But Sloane's a really good partner and I'm leaning a lot. We're gonna be a great team."

"Maybe you'll team up with Ryan again," Chris said.

Max took another large sip of her gimlet. A lot of bartenders didn't use enough vodka when they made them, but this guy didn't seem to have that problem. And she was, she reflected, going through this one at a good clip. "It won't be the same," she said. "But I have a feeling that one way or another, we'll be working together a lot."

II

Mike was still too dazed from whatever they had hit him with to count exactly how many hands were holding him up and frisking him. He knew that if he could divide the hands by two, it would tell him how many of Duskos goons there were. He was still trying to work it out when he felt hands relieving him of his Glock, his spare mags, his phone, and his wallet. More hands were zip tying his wrists behind him. Dusko stood in front of him, watching the goons work. "Did Gray pay you to sell me out?" Mike asked.

"No. Gray hasn't got enough money to buy me. But someone else does. Someone who wants you to be an embarrassment to your government before you die."

"I don't get it."

"You will confess on camera to the kidnaps and renditions you have performed. Including the attempt to kidnap Mark Gray."

"Like hell."

"An accurate word, I think."

One of the goons slapped a piece of duct tape across his mouth, and a hood was pulled over Mike's head. A moment later, someone punched him hard in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He fell to the ground, wondering if he was going to puke inside the hood. He heard Dusko's voice giving orders. There were no more hands on him, but he wasn't going anywhere. Minutes passed, and the hands were back, hauling him to his feet. He was being half dragged, half carried through the door. It wasn't far, so it must have been the door he had kicked in. More voices. Four in all, he thought.

He was lifted, dumped unceremoniously into the trunk of a car, and then the lid was slammed shut.

 _So much for doing the wrong thing the right way. If there ever even was a right way, I've done this in the worst way possible._

III

Dusko took a burner phone out of his pocket and dialed the number Zamir had given him. "We have the package," he said.

"There's a problem," Zamir replied. "The safe house is blown. Marta has betrayed us after all.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Tell them to return the package to the warehouse. They'll understand what it means. Go with them. I'll meet you there."

IV

The gunmetal colored Peugeot moved slowly down the narrow street to avoid attracting attention.

When one has a kidnap victim in the trunk, it pays to obey the traffic laws. "You shouldn't have hit him like that," the man in the passenger said. "Zamir doesn't want him damaged. He wants to do the damage himself."

The driver, a sullen man with a shaved head, glanced over at him, and then focused his attention on the road. "I didn't thump him that hard."

"You gave Dusko directions to the alternate site?" his companion asked.

"Of course. You know, as far as I'm concerned that thumping I gave him is just practice for what I'm doing to that asshole Gray. I liked Petar. He was all right."

"Gray will likely be dead by the time we get there. The girl too."

"They'll make her talk first," the driver said.

"That won't take long," the passenger replied. "Turn here." They turned to the right, easing out onto a two lane street that wasn't much better lit than the one they had just left. Around them was a warren of houses, mostly cinder block with metal roofs. On the right was a rusty and ragged chain link fence with a higher sheet metal fence behind it, white, splattered with graffiti.

"Hey," one of the men in back said. "There's a car behind us."

The driver looked into his rear view mirror, seeing, too late, the headlights close behind and gaining rapidly. The car was moving over into the other lane as if to pass, but swerved and it's front bumper it the rear tire of the Peugeot hard. The Peugeot spun sharply to the left, making a right angle turn as the driver lost control. Along the left side of the was a ragged chain link fence with a white sheet metal fence spattered with graffiti behind it. The Peugeot slammed into the fence, right below some English graffiti that said BUBE KISS. It crashed through the chain link fence, easily bending down a length of sheet metal fence as well.

The man in the passenger seat recovered his wits first, and looked back to see that the other car had stopped, the driver had gotten out, and was walking quickly towards them. A woman with blonde hair, drawing a pistol. He reached for the gun in his shoulder holster and had just gotten his hand on the butt when bullets shattered the window glass and sent sharp crystalline fragments flying through the car. He heard one of the men in the back cry out in pain. He felt momentary pain from shards of glass hitting his face a split second before a bullet entered his skull just above his right ear.

V

Erin watched the Peugeot drive away from the metal building, started her BMW, and began to follow. She'd have to wait for him to get to a two lane road before she made her move, because she needed a road wide enough to pass. But she'd have to be quick, because once he got to Ulica Nekrassov, it was only a short distance before he made it to a four lane boulevard where there would be too many witnesses, and he'd be moving too fast. What she was about to try could kill everyone in the car, Mike included, if she tried it above 60 kilometers per hour.

The Peugeot turned onto the Ulica Nekrassov. Erin hit the gas, whipped around the corner and closed rapidly on the Peugeot ahead. He was accelerating, in a hurry to get where to wherever he was taking Mike. Shit. At too high a speed, this would cause the target car to flip over. She eased over into the other lane as if she were about to pass. With any luck, they'd think she was a reckless driver in a hurry until it was too late. As her front bumper drew even with the car's rear wheels, she turned the steering wheel, bringing her BMW to within a foot of the target, and then turned sharply, hitting the rear wheel with her front bumper. The Peugeot went out of control, spun to the left, and went head on into the metal fences on the left, one chain link, and a solid fence behind that.

She slammed on the brakes and came to an abrupt stop. She got out of the car and drew her Glock, moving rapidly towards the Peugeot. There could be up to four guys in that car. However many there were, she was going to have to kill them all.

The reflection of a streetlight on the window glass of the car made it impossible to see her targets, and the glass might change the trajectory of her bullets. She took aim at the front passenger side window. _Shoot to break glass, and then shoot to kill._ Her bullets shattered the glass, revealing a man in the passenger seat. Before he could react, she put her front sight on his head and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession. Behind him, she could make out the outline of the driver. She kept squeezing the trigger while advancing on the Peugeot and the driver slumped over.

She switched her aim to the back seat, turning the rear window into crystalline shards. Two men in the back, the one closest to her trying to get down behind the imaginary cover of the car door. The man behind him was trying to get out on the far side and take cover behind the vehicle. She had to kill him first, because if he got out, he might get behind the trunk where they'd put Mike. She fired four shots in rapid succession, and he went down, but fell outside the vehicle. Was he still a threat?

She reached for a spare mag. She had fifteen rounds in the Glock, but she wasn't sure how many she'd fired, and didn't want it to go dry in the middle of a fight. She hit the mag release, letting her first magazine drop to the ground and slapped the fresh mag into the gun. She resumed firing, putting six rounds into the rear passenger side door. If the man on the other side thought that a car door would protect him from bullets, he was in for a rude awakening.

She ceased fire and approached the Peugeot, aiming her Glock at the rear door. He might still be a threat. His head reappeared above the door, and she could see that he had a pistol in his hand that he was trying to bring to bear, but he was moving slowly, probably wounded Three more shots, fired as she closed the distance on the car, finished him off. She looked in through the shattered read window, and saw the fourth man lying with his feet still inside the car, and his body on the ground outside.

VI

Mike lay in the trunk of the car, sweating beneath the stifling hood, his head still hurting from being sapped, his stomach hurting from being punched, wondering if it was a tractor trailer or a freight train that had just hit the car. He could hear gunshots outside, glass shattering, and the metal on metal sound of bullets punching through the car body. He wondered who the hell was killing whom, and when they'd get around to him.

The shooting stopped. No more noise outside. A moment later, he heard car door open, and after that, the sound of the trunk key being inserted and turned. The lid opened, and the hood was yanked off his head. He looked up, not knowing who to expect.

Erin.

She yanked the duct tape off his mouth, and he gulped air. She pulled what looked like a multitool out of her pocket, and started working on the zip ties on his wrists. "Are you OK? Can you walk?"

"Yeah. Just get me out of here."

The zip ties loosened. "That's got it," Erin said. "Let's haul ass."

Moments later Erin was burning rubber to accelerate away from the scene.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Do you need medical attention?"

"No. Where are we going?"

The road ahead turned into a Y exit, and not stopping to yield, she gunned the engine and made a turn that left Mike's stomach behind, merging into a four lane road divided by a grassy median. She looked around for any sign of pursuit or police, and eased it down, keeping her speed just slightly over the speed limit to avoid attracting attention.

"We're not going back to your hotel or the safe house. And we've got to ditch this car. I've got a contact who can hide us for a while until the Agency can arrange an escape rout."

"I'm not leaving without Mark."

"That's your call, but I hear Macedonian prisons are the suck."

"Where did you come from?" he asked. "How did you know?"

"I bugged your phone."

Mike looked at her with open mouthed astonishment.

"I figured you might pull some kind of shit, since you were here to kill Gray. So I had your phone number monitored. That thing's not encrypted, and Uncle Sam is deep inside most phone systems, in this part of Europe anyway. So they got you talking to Dusko. After that, we used your phone as a tracker, since it has GPS. And when you met Dusko, we had it switched on remotely and we got every word on speaker. "

He shook his head in apparent disbelief.

"I warned you about the goddam phone," she said.

"I'm an American citizen, you know. You're supposed to get a warrant when you bug my phone."

"Yeah right. I'm sure you and Ryan would have got a warrant."

He looked ahead, realizing the absurdity of what he's said, and burst out laughing. "At least I was right about one thing. You do know a lot about hunting."

VII

Mark looked round the room, searching for some opening. The dining room of the safe house was a bit crowded at the moment, with two of Zamir's men holding guns on him from across the table, and a third standing behind Marta. Zamir stood off to one side, near the kitchen door. With two men holding guns on him, his chances of taking them down unarmed were nonexistent.

 _No matter. If I'm going to die, then I'll die with my teeth in someone's throat_.

"I feel really bad about this," Mark said. "If I'd known you were coming I would have fixed enough for all of us. We could have bonded over dinner."

"I'm almost tempted to let you finish.," Zamir replied. "The condemned should have a last meal."

"You're right," Mark grinned. "You can have the rest of mine."

"I wouldn't want to deprive you. I really came to ask Marta a few questions, but it seems almost pointless. I can guess most of the answers."

"Zamir, I'm sorry," Marta sobbed.

"Let me guess," Zamir interrupted. "The woman from the club contacted you, and you sold me out."

"I didn't think you'd let us go," Marta said.

"I wouldn't have. But your death would have been quick and painless. Now, however..."

He drew something from his pocket that, with a flick of his wrist, sprouted four inches of black oxide blade. "Marta, I'm going to ask this only once. Tell me about the woman from the club. Who did she work for?"

"She said she worked for Doctor Arthur Strauss."

"The American serial killer? That's absurd."

"I swear, that's what she said."

"Somehow I doubt it. No matter. I'll simply hurt you until I'm satisfied that you couldn't possibly be telling anything but the truth." He nodded in the direction of the dining room window, which looked out on the back deck. "Close the blinds," he said to one the men holding a pistol on Mark. "She may have been signaling someone."

The man moved to comply. He moved to the window and reached for the handle dangling from the top corner. As he did, there was she sound of breaking glass. A jet of blood, bone fragments, and brains sprayed from his head. Droplets of blood landed on the table and splattered the man aiming at Mark. A flower vase on the other side of the room shattered as the high velocity bullet kept going, through the back wall and into the next room.

More breaking window glass, this time from a much larger object. A black cylinder about six inches long and two inches across came sailing though the window. It landed somewhere on the dining room floor a split second before the world exploded.

VIII

Eliza pulled the pin on the flashbang grenade as soon as she heard the shot. She'd told Kaminsky that she'd assault when he opened fire from his position in the trees behind the house. She tossed the grenade in through the glass window, and ducked to the left, so as not to be blinded or concussed by the blast. Precisely 1.5 seconds after it left her hand, the grenade went off. She could see light from the detonation illuminating the back deck like the flash bulb of the gods. She brought up the silenced Skorpion machine pistol slung under her right shoulder and thumbed the selector switch to single shot.

There was a door to her left. It didn't lead directly to the dining room, but she had to get in somehow. She fired four shots into the lock and kicked the door in. She found herself in what looked like a living room. There was a door on the right side of the room that probably led to the dining room. She flipped the selector switch on the Skorpion to Maximum Fun.

A man came staggering out of the door in front of her holding a pistol in his hand. It wasn't aimed at anything, and he probably couldn't see to aim it anyway. She squeezed the trigger on the Skorpion, aiming low. A burst of full auto fire stitched its way up the man's torso, the muzzle of the Skorpion climbing abruptly from the recoil. He went down, but she realized that she'd gotten excited and burned off a whole magazine. Shit. She ejected the mag, drew a fresh one from under her left shoulder and slapped it in.

She moved cautiously towards the door. As she did someone in the other room who was crouching down low reached around the corner and took aim at her. She reacted instantly, bringing the Skorpion to bear.

They fired simultaneously. The range was close, but her opponent was dazed, excited, or a bad shot. His bullet ruined a perfectly good thirty six inch TV on the back wall. Her burst was more controlled this time. Most of it went high from the muzzle climb, but enough of it caught him that he fell with his body across the entrance to the dining room. She paused for a moment. She could see the end of a table through the open door, but she couldn't see anyone else. She hoped that no stray bullets had hit Mark Gray. She cautiously moved up to the door, took a breath to steady herself, and then came around the corner, her Skorpion at the ready, prepared to sweep the room. A man was crouching at the far end of the table. He stood. She covered him with her Skorpion, ready to cut him down, but then recognized Mark Gray. He ignored her, turned away, and ran into the kitchen.

IX

Mark found himself on the floor, unsure how he'd got there. Whatever that thing was, it had gone off close to him. He looked around, trying to gather his wits. He could see, under the table, that Marta was lying still on the floor. He heard, from somewhere nearby, a burst of automatic weapons fire, and a moment later, a body hitting the floor. One of Zamir's men was crouched by the door to the living room, clutching a pistol and not paying him any attention. He crawled towards Marta.

She was still alive, her lips moving, mouthing the words "I'm sorry." Her throat had been slashed. Zamir was nowhere to be seen. The shooting had come from the living room, so he probably hadn't gone out that way.

Another burst from an automatic weapon, and the man by the door fell. Mark stood and made a dash for the kitchen. He paused long enough to grab the knife he had used on Petar from its wooden block. Zamir Tolka was a dead man.

X

Eliza took in the scene in the kitchen. She could see Marta on the floor, lying in a spreading pool of blood. She'd read that Zamir favored a knife. The problem now was to find Mark Gray and get him out of here if she could. That meant finding and killing Zamir before he had a chance to kill Mark.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice was telling her that the smart play was to get out of here, go back to the hotel, enjoy some more of that Scotch, get a good nights sleep, and go home. Let these animals fight it out. But if Zamir killed Mark, this was all for nothing.

So find Zamir.

He hadn't gone past her. If he was trying to escape he might go for one of the cars. Probably not, though, since he knew there was a sniper, and he'd be exposed trying to get to the garage. He'd go out through the front, since that would put the house between him and Kaminsky. She ducked back into the living room and turned towards the entrance hall. She saw no sign of Gray or Zamir, but she found the front door open. She ran for it, and found herself on an outside deck that led around the corner of the house. Still no Zamir. There was a staircase leading down to ground level. She headed down it, her Skorpion at the ready.

When she got to the bottom, she looked around and saw no one. To the right, she could see light coming from a downstairs window, the deck ran around the house to the left, and that was where the garage was. Could Zamir be going for a car after all?

She headed left and realized her mistake when Zamir stepped out from the shadows beneath the deck. She tried to whirl and bring her Skorpion to bear, but he was too close, and grabbed the end of the silencer with his left hand. He had the knife in his right hand, and he was stabbing for her leg.

She stepped back and used her left hand to get inside and block his knife hand, but she was surprised, and he was stronger. He pulled hard on the now useless Skorpion and made another stab at her with his knife hand. She managed to block again, but lost her balance, He shoved hard on her gun arm and she went down hard on her back. She found herself looking up at him, wondering why he didn't finish her off. Instead he let go of her gun and dropped his knife, a stunned expression on his face.

Because Mark Gray was stabbing him in the back. Repeatedly. Zamir fell forward, and she could see Mark. He reached down and seized her by the throat in a grip that felt like a bear trap.

"You." He stared at her, as if wondering what to do. Eliza hoped he would make up his mind before her brain was completely starved of oxygen.

He released his grip just as blackness was beginning to swim before her eyes.

"She's dead," he said simply.

"I'm so sorry," she managed to croak. "I tried."

He sat down on the ground, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and began to sob uncontrollably.

Eliza managed to sit up and take stock of herself. She decided that the blood on her clothes was Zamir's, and not hers. At length she heard cars pull into the driveway and looked up. Stinnes, Kaminsky, and Juliana. Kaminsky came running up to her. "Are you alright?" he asked. She nodded wordlessly.

She was aware of Juliana kneeling down by Mark Gray, and going into the spiel they had rehearsed. "Mr Gray, I represent the interests of Dr Arthur Strauss. We've come to take you home."

XI

Max opened her eyes reluctantly to discover that the ceiling over her head wasn't hers, nor was the couch she was lying on, and that her head was pounding. These facts, she decided, were probably related. She sat up slowly, and found that someone had thrown a blanket over her, and placed a pillow under her head.

"Good morning," a voice said. She turned to find Sloane standing in what looked like a bedroom door wearing a robe.

"Hi. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Chris and I brought you back here. I'll make us some coffee, and you can get a shower."

"Thanks I need both. I don't know what happened."

Sloane sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "I do. But I really don't think this is the best way to deal with it."

"It's not. John's right. I'm surprised they let me come back here."

"I'm glad they sent you here. And don't listen to John, because believe me, nobody else does."

"It just all got to me," Max said. "It's a huge change in my life. I was so proud of finally getting accepted. I leave, and when I come back, everything's different. And no one to come home to."

"You've got Ryan. You've got me. And if Mike doesn't come back, there will be someone else. One of those four million guys I mentioned. Come on, let's get you some coffee."

XII

Ryan was sitting in a café having coffee and a bagel before work when the call came from Dan Shelby. "Hey buddy. You're up early."

"Earlier than you think. I got a wake up call this morning about your pal Weston. He's really stepped in it this time."

'What happened?" Ryan asked.

"Apparently he got played by this CI that put us on to Gray. His Agency contact smelled a rat, but Weston violated orders, went in solo, and almost got himself snatched. This CIA hot shot saved his ass, but there's dead bodies all over Skopje. Weston is holed up in a safe house and they're arranging an escape rout, but the Agency is screaming bloody murder."

"Is he OK?"

"He's not hurt, but if they tie those dead bodies to the US he's gonna be looking for work as a rent a cop. I know he's important to you. So if they ask me for a recommendation, do we bring him in?"

"Tell them..." Ryan paused. He had been about to say "tell them to bring him home."

 _But if they bring him home in disgrace, will he be able to face Max?_

"Tell them what?" Shelby asked.

"Tell them to leave him in the field. If possible."

"You do realize that if this turns into a diplomatic incident, then it's gonna be way the fuck out of my hands."

"I know," Ryan said. "Thanks."

"How's Max working out?" Shelby asked.

"Really good. She's going to be one of the best."

"Maybe I'll finally get to meet her some time."

"I'm sure you will," Ryan replied. "And I really appreciate this."

"Well I've got a meeting with Associate Director Mahoney, so I have to go. Talk to you later."

"Later."

"And Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"Be good."

XIII

Sloane stepped out of Gina's office, leaving the door open behind her. Gina's door was always open, unless she was dealing with personnel matters or something classified. This meeting had been a personnel matter, namely Sloane's evaluation. It was top notch, which had known it would be. She was on her way back to check on Max, when she was waylaid by Amy Hendricks, who had a file in her hand and was headed in the direction of the Command Center.

"How's Max?" Amy asked.

"She's kind of got a headbanger, but she's OK."

"Sucks about Mike leaving her like that."

"Yeah, it does," Sloane replied.

"Maybe we could introduce to someone."

Sloane had been about to detach herself and get back to her desk, but froze in her tracks. Amy's taste in men was dubious at best.

"Maybe Tom Reyes," Amy continued.

Sloane supposed that her face must have betrayed her feelings.

"You're not prejudiced, are you?" Amy asked.

"No," Sloane replied. "Assholes come from every race, creed, and color. And you know what they all have in common?"

"What?"

"They're all assholes."

"Jesus, Sloane..."

"He's a lousy agent," Sloane said. "And several other kinds of trouble besides. I gotta go. We'll talk later."

XIV

Erin's contact proved to be a Turkish man named Cairo Aslan who lived in a spacious house in the hills southeast of Skopje. Studen something or other. He had a spare room, which Erin used, and a couch that folded out into a bed for Mike. Cairo, Erin explained, was a bit old fashioned.

Cairo's back deck commanded a lovely view of a town in the valley below with a five syllable name, Studen something or other. It was a beautiful morning and Mike sat sipping Turkish coffee, waiting for Erin to return. She'd forbidden him to go out or to go back to the hotel to collect his baggage. Mike suspected that if he tried to leave, Cairo, a tall, fortyish man with a hard face and arms like a stevedore, might have something to say about it.

His first day here, she'd arranged a visit by an American man who examined his injuries, asked him how many fingers he was holding up, and had him follow his index finger around. Mike suspected that the man was some sort of military medic and part of the special ops backup team she'd mentioned his first day here. In addition, she'd also gone to meet someone to arrange a way for him to get out of the country.

And she'd confiscated his phone. He couldn't blame her, although he was thinking of asking for it back so he could call Max.

He heard a door open behind him. It was Erin. She was wearing jeans, a loose fitting gray blouse, and sneakers. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. He thought she was beautiful. She sat down next to him at the round, wrought iron table. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm good. Just enjoying the view. I may be in the doghouse, but at least the doghouse has a beautiful view."

"And physically?"

"Better. The bruises are healing up, but the feeling like a fool isn't."

"That'll get better too. I've been making some arrangements. They'll have papers delivered here, and a disguise kit. Once you're over the border, you should be all right. We've booked a flight. You leave day after tomorrow."

"What about you?"

"I leave this afternoon. They'll send a guy out to deliver the papers and help you with the disguise kit."

"Where are you going?"

"After Dusko. The Company is somewhat pissed. I'm not sure yet what's going to happen to him. He tried to kidnap and murder an FBI agent, so the Bureau wants him alive. They want him tried and sent to prison. The problem with that is that in order to try him, we'd have to admit that we were in a place we're not supposed to be, doing something we're not supposed to do. It'll all be decided way above my level. But my guess is that Dusko is going out with a bang instead of a whimper."

"Will you do it?"

"Officially we don't violate 12333. My orders are to bring him in, and I will. They want to talk to him. After that...People can get shot trying to escape."

He shook his head, as though in disbelief.

"It's not like you've never killed anyone," she said softly.

"What about Mark Gray?" he asked.

"Someone hit that safe house the same night they tried to take you. Five dead, none of them Mark Gray. Marta Pandev was killed, probably executed. Someone slit her throat. One of the dead guys was Zamir Tolka."

"The terrorist?"

"Yeah. That's who Dusko was probably working for. Someone stuck a butcher knife in his back."

"Let me guess. Mark's fingerprints were on the knife."

"That's my guess too, but we don't know that yet because the Macedonian cops don't have Gray's prints on file, and if we start dropping hints we're admitting we were there. Eventually they'll query Interpol, and yeah, I think the prints are coming back as Gray's.

"The running bet," She continued, "is that you were going to be executed on video after confessing to taking part in renditions. This all took serious money to set up, and we don't know where it came from. A government, maybe. But there's no sign of Gray."

She fell silent for a moment, looking at the town below. "I've done renditions. Snatch jobs. It was the wrong way to go here. We could have requested Gray's extradition. And maybe we'd have Gray, and a much lower body count. I work for people who are going to one day hate living under the rules they made up as they went along."

"So who hit the safe house?"

"That's a damn fine question," she said. "The current narrative in Washington is that Gray was rescued by someone he paid himself after he figured out that Zamir wasn't planning to leave witnesses. Zamir had a knife. He probably did Marta when he realized he'd been double crossed. Marta could have acted as a go between for whoever Gray contacted."

"And what do you believe?" Mike asked.

"Gray was being paid by someone, probably Zamir, which explains the big deposits in that bank account you found. But there's no large withdrawals. Not from the account in Skopje, or from any other account anyone knows about. What did Gray pay this hit team with? Did he win the lottery somewhere? Did he hold a yard sale? It's the kind of theory you come up with when you're scared of the truth."

"Who the hell would actually want Mark for anything besides target practice?" Mike asked.

"I don't know. And that worries me." She gave him a faint smile. "On a different subject, I'm on a plane to Vienna real soon. I can't let you make a phone call, not even on my phone. But if you want me to call Ryan when I get to Vienna and tell him you're OK..."

"That's OK," Mike said. "He knows, I'm sure."

"Anyone else you'd like me to call?"

"I'll call her myself when the time comes.".

"So when is that?"

"I don't know," Mike said miserably. " I screwed this all up."

"Mike, I like you a lot. You're a good man. Let me give you some advice. Go home. Please. On the first available flight and without Gray. Because even if you get him, even if you survive, it's not worth what it's costing you. Gray's head on the wall is not worth your life, and it's not worth every good thing in your life."

"I can't," he said. "I have to find him."

Erin nodded , took his hand in hers, and squeezed it gently. "I have to go," she said, and stood. "I hope you find your way home. And I hope she's there waiting."

"I hope so too," Mike replied. "But I kind of doubt it."

"Well if she's not," Erin grinned, " look me up."

"I will. Thank you. For everything. You be careful."

"You too," she said. She turned, and walked back into the house, leaving Mike sitting alone, admiring the view from the hillside on a perfect late summer day.

Musical Interlude - Happy by Stabbing Westward.

=========================Chapter Notes=============================

A few random notes on things you may not be familiar with.

A gimlet is a cocktail traditionally made of gin and lime juice. I prefer one to one, and so does Max. A lot of people claim you should use Rose's Sweetened Lime Juice, but America subsidizes corn farming and so high fructose corn syrup ends up in nearly everything as a sweetener. It tastes nasty ( I think) and probably helps cause diabetes. Max, Like me, prefers fresh squeezed juice and simple syrup as a sweetener. A lot of people prefer vodka to gin in their gimlets. In this, Max is misguided.

An old fashioned is a mix of bourbon, simple syrup, bitters, and water, served on the rocks with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice.

A Margarita is a complicated cocktail made with tequila. There are a blue million recipes for Margaritas available online. Most tequila cocktails are complicated, because you have to mix a lot of stuff with tequila to be able to choke that shit down.

Erin's maneuver that she used to stop the kidnapers is called PIT (precision immobilization technique.) The move is sometimes called PITing a vehicle. It can stop a car, but at speeds above 35 mph is likely to cause the car to flip, which stands a good chance of killing the occupants. Remember what I said about not trying this stuff at home.

Everything Erin did to monitor Mike's phone is possible. Remember this, if you ever need to do something you don't want to be caught at, and leave the phone at home.

Executive Order 12333 was signed by President Ronald Reagan on December 1st, 1981. It's posted at the CIA's web site. Section 2.11 reads " No person employed by or acting on behalf of the United States Government shall engage in or conspire to engage in assassination."

So what about all those drone strikes America has done since 9-11? Well, they're illegal under 12333, but what's a few illegal killings among friends? Richard Nixon once said that if the President does it, it's not illegal. Apparently Presidents George W Bush and Barack Obama agreed.

For people who aren't the President, it's usually a matter of saying that were people shot resisting, or trying to escape, or they thought he had a gun, or whatever. By now Americans have seen enough iffy police shootings to know how that game is played.

No, this is not a political message. It's just a factual statement that a.) assassinations are illegal, and b.) the law against assassinations gets ignored from time to time. I take no position here on whether that's good or bad, but it does happen to be true.

15


	7. Epilogue - Ninety Percent Of Life

"Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Epilogue - Ninety Percent Of Life

Juliana hadn't been sure what to wear this evening. Her meeting with Eliza certainly wasn't a date, but none of their previous meetings had been held in the private dining room of an expensive restaurant. Since it was a business meeting (Or so she assumed), she opted for business casual. She selected a chambray blazer, light blue shirt, long black pants, and dark blue pumps.

She gave her name to the maitre d' and was shown to a private room upstairs with dark wood paneling and a rectangular table with seats for eight. Eliza was already there, sitting at the end of the table studying a menu. She'd gone with a black cowl neck dress.

Eliza looked up from her menu and gave a smile somewhere between happy and predatory. "Come on in," she said. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," Juliana replied. She sat down across the table, and began looking at a menu. Places like this , she realized were well beyond her means.

"You did really well in Skopje," Eliza said. "And I thought you deserved a reward. I know you're something of a foodie, so I thought maybe you'd appreciate a night out."

"Thank you. I wasn't sure what this meeting was about, and I didn't expect anything like this."

"Working for me has its advantages. How was your flight home?"

"It was good. I thought we'd be coming home together. I was afraid something was wrong."

"Far from it," Eliza said with a smile. "I decided to unwind and spent some time with a man I met on the trip. He's in the arms business. He took me to a casino in Skopje. I didn't even know they had them. And we flew up to Prague for a couple of days. It's a beautiful city. Very romantic."

Eliza reached into her purse, which was sitting in the seat next to her, and produced a envelope which she handed to Juliana. "Here. Another payment. And more to come. You did a great job pretending to be management."

"I was scared of what you'd do if I let you down," Juliana replied.

"Good," Eliza grinned.

"Are you sure he bought it?"

"Not absolutely. Probably. But he won't see me again. He'll deal with you from now on. What would you like to have?"

Juliana scanned the menu. "Everything is so expensive."

"I'm in a generous mood. That doesn't happen very often. Indulge yourself."

"Is Mark back in this country yet?" Juliana asked, studying the menu.

"Not yet. He's in Bulgaria. He needs a little time after what happened, and we aren't ready to put that part of the plan into effect yet anyway. Losing Marta hit him pretty hard. She really cared about him, and he knew that. Stinnes and Kaminsky are still with him. We're setting him up with a new identity and a little money until it's time to come back here."

Juliana looked up from the menu. "May I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"You brought me along because you didn't want Mark to know you were behind the operation. But Marta had met you. Dealt with you."

"So?"

Juliana sat in silence.

"Go ahead," Eliza said. "I think I know your question, but ask anyway."

"Were you really planning to bring her here? If she knew who you were, then...I mean with all those bullets flying around..."

" You want to know if I would have betrayed Marta to keep my secrets."

"Would you?"

"No," Eliza said.

"Would you admit it if you had been planning to kill her?"

Eliza studied Juliana as if she were deciding where to make the first incision. "No," she said at last.

"Because I know some of your secrets too."

"Well then," Eliza said with an amused smile, "you had better hope that I'm telling the truth. Now what would you like to have?"

Juliana decided that it was pointless to try to read whatever was behind the impish grin on Eliza's face. She was committed now, and would just have to hope for the best. "The poached lobster, I think. With garganelli, pole beans, and minestrone. It sounds really good."

"So I hear. I'll have the grilled beef with shelling beans, olives, and peppers. I don't eat lobster."

"Why not?" Juliana asked.

"There's no humane way to kill them. I mean, they boil them alive."

"It's a big bug. A tasty big bug .You're not one of those people who believe that they scream when they put them in the pot are you?. Because that's a myth. It's just air rushing out from under she shell."

"They beat on the inside of the pot trying to escape," Eliza said. "That's not a myth. My Mom boiled one once. It drove her out of the kitchen."

"Besides, a lot of places don't even do that anymore," Juliana protested. "I read that they have a machine now that kills them instantly with electric shocks."

"They've invented a lobster shocker? Is this a great country or what?"

"It's a British invention," Juliana explained. "I watched you torture a man to death. And you won't kill a big bug?"

"It's a defenseless animal," Eliza said, in a cutesy voice.

"I swear, Eliza, I think you're just trolling me."

"Look, I know what I am," Eliza explained, "and I'm Ok with it. I like myself. But the fact that I'm a predator doesn't mean I don't have standards. Maybe that's how we define ourselves sometimes. By the stuff we just don't do. I'll call the waiter, and tell him we're ready to order."

II

They were approaching the front door to Karlino's, Sloane was looking at her smartphone, which had just beeped to announce a text from Chris.

"It's two drinks tonight,"Max said. "That's my limit. Cross my heart and hope to spit."

"It better be," Sloane said. "Because if it's not I'm gonna do something really drastic."

"Like?" Max asked mischievously

"Tell Ryan."

"Thanks for not telling him before. Look, I know I had a bad night. Things have gotten off to a rough start. But that changes, starting tonight. Because I'm going to make it change. I'm glad now that I came back here. Ryan was right. Going to LA wasn't the answer. I shouldn't be the one leaving. Mike left me, and that was his choice. I was ready to give up the Bureau so we could be together. He left anyway. I'm not giving up Ryan because Mike hasn't come back."

"You're sure about this?"

" Yeah. Well, mostly. To quote Woody Allen, ninety percent of life is showing up. Mike's not showing up. So I have to get on with life, the best way I can. I've got Ryan. I've got my friends, and I've got a great partner. And I'll meet new people here. Maybe even one of those four million guys. So I'm starting over. Tonight."

"Great," Sloane said.

"In fact,", Max continued. " Amy's going to be here tonight. With her fiancé, and one of those four million guys"

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She said his name's Tom."

They reached the front door of Karlino's. Max pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sloane followed, cursing under her breath.

Musical Fade Out - Maybe You'll Be There, by Diana Krall

======================== Notes =====================

The Lost Year:

One of the more thoughtful comments I ever ran into about The Following (And I cannot recall now where I read it), was that The Following was about how the villains succeeded and how the heroes failed. Maybe that applies in spades to The Hunting Of Men.

Part of the fun in fanfic is filling in gaps in the canon, and Season 3 of The Following had more of those than most shows rack up over the course of a long run. But just as S3 had a lot of gaps for a fanfic writer to play around with, some of those gaps present serous challenges when one tries to fill them in. As canon gaps go, Mike's year overseas is something akin to the Bermuda Triangle.

We were told nothing about it. The Lost Year was basically a plot device so that the showrunners could rip Mike and Max apart for the bulk of S3. No details about what he did or where he went or what happened were ever given. But we were told by Gina Mendez that Mike had been reckless and insubordinate, and because of this, she sent Max on a trip with Ryan instead of Mike.

What this seems to imply, at least to me, is that at some point in the course of the Lost Year, Mike got close enough to Mark Gray (Or thought he did), to endanger himself and/or someone else, and that he also violated orders. But we were never told any of the details. Obviously The Hunting Of Men is an attempt to fill in some of that rather large blank space in The Following's timeline, and to imagine what, exactly, Mike did that caused Gina to keep him in New York. It also goes a bit into how Mike broke off contact with Max long enough for her to become involved with someone else. If that aspect of The Hunting Of Men seems unconvincing, it's mostly due to my limitations as a writer, but maybe, just maybe, it's also because the Lost Year, when Mike and Max went from "Finally!" to not speaking, was one of the least convincing events in The Following's canon.


End file.
